


A Most Proper Omega

by wargoddess



Series: Dragon Age: ABO [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: Cullen is a most proper omega, gently-reared in service to the Maker-Wolf, forced through circumstance to join a most improper pack. What is he to do when an *extremely* improper young alpha named Carver starts sniffing after him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A silly take on a comedy of manners among werewolves, because why not? Not much porn, note. And while it isn't necessary to read "Hawke, Wolf" (in which Cullen is the alpha to Carver's omega; this story is just a reversal of that one) or "The Dragon's Lair" before tackling this one, the world might make more sense if you do. No rape takes place in this story, but a past rape is implied.

In the spring, it is said, a young omega's fancy turns to mating.  But in the days after Cullen's future ends, as it becomes clearer and clearer that mating is out of the question for him, he begins to question his own continued existence.  What is the point, after all, of an omega who cannot serve a beast-clan?  He was born to defend righteousness as the helpmeet of an alpha, and co-leader of a pack.  But what alpha will ever have him, soiled thing that he is? 

     And so he gives up.  What else is he to do, with no hope of the future he was made for, trained for, has yearned for?  In his darker moments he contemplates suicide, but he is too much a servant of the Maker, and the Chantry Den Mothers' teachings turn him aside from this path before long.  Then for a time he thinks of quitting entirely -- of leaving the Kinloch Tower Wolf pack that has sheltered him since he came of age, and going among the humans to make what life he can.  But in the end, Cullen is too proud to be merely mundane.  He stays, and serves Greagoir's Wolves as he can, hunting and fighting and protecting them as he might with what power he has left.  It is a comfort to be of use, but he stops wishing for the impossible.  Hope just hurts too much.

     After a year or so of this, the pack alpha of Kinloch, Greagoir, summons Cullen and says they are going to Kirkwall.  It isn't described as exile.  Greagoir explains with touching, troubling gentleness that he has simply negotiated with the pack of the Gallows for an exchange.  Kinloch needs more betas after the Incident, to replace those lost and restore the pack to fighting strength; that pack has a surplus.  In exchange, however, the Gallows pack will take Cullen -- Kinloch's poor, damaged, useless omega.

     That's terrible bargaining, Cullen wants to advise Greagoir, as is his omega duty.  Ten hale betas for one broken omega?  But he cannot bring himself to speak in an omega's role now, or ever again.  Mutely he nods acceptance.

     "The alpha there was born of a human noble clan," Greagoir continues, still with that terrible compassion in his voice.  "It is rare for an alpha to come out of humans, and this gives her a rather unique perspective on things.  Her name is Leandra Hawke." 

     Cullen is astounded, as Greagoir tells him more.  The sire of Leandra Hawke's children is a _Witch_ , of all things, and the Gallows' First Enchanter at that.  And even more astonishing is the fact that she has a _second_ mate -- an omega, of course, because no pack alpha can function for long without one.  The the pack accepts this is proof of Leandra's strength and leadership, Cullen realizes through his shock.  Such a pack can easily bear the burden of an omega who will never be able to contribute much to its strength beyond his sword.

     Greagoir sees Cullen's bitterness, and grows more sorrowful.  "Do not give up hope, my boy," he says.  "I chose the Gallows pack because I think it might be the best place for you.  Consider their alpha's choice of mate."  He falters a little.  " _Mates_.  She wanted partners bound to her by love, not just biology.  I believe this means there are others in the pack, other alphas, with a similar lack of orthodoxy..."  Greagoir trails off, as if he has run out of encouraging words.

     Cullen has always known that he might be sent away from Kinloch.  Omegas are traditionally exchanged between packs to seal alliances or strengthen friendly ties.  He knows that many omegas chafe against their lot, but Cullen has always yearned to serve in an omega's customary place.  This situation is not the same, however, as Cullen leaving to serve in a position of honor.  Greagoir has not called it exile... but some things do not need to be said.

     "If we are to leave on the morrow, I must pack, my alpha," Cullen says.  He has not interrupted Greagoir.  He keeps his voice even, his at-ease stance precise, his gaze fixed just below Greagoir's chin as is proper.  But Greagoir flinches as if Cullen has cursed him, and then an aching silence falls.

     "Dismissed, then," Greagoir says at last.  Cullen turns to go.  It is something of a victory for his pride that Greagoir's expression shows as much despair as Cullen feels.  He wishes it did not feel so much like defeat.

#

     Amid the sandstone hills of the Wounded Coast, they are attacked.

     Their assailants are Tal-Vashoth -- Dragons who have spurned the heathen belief system that keeps their kind from rampaging unchecked and devouring the world.  No High Dragons, thank the Maker and His Omega, or Greagoir's Wolves would be doomed.  As it is, there are thirty drakes, which makes them more than a match for the eleven Wolves who have accompanied Greagoir on this "diplomatic" mission to Kirkwall.

     If Cullen were not there, all would be lost.  Cullen is no Wolf -- he yearns to be, has spent his life waiting to be, but omegas are merely human or elven until they are taken and turned by an alpha.  He has an omega's powers, however, so he uses this to force the Tal-Vashoth Dragons into humanoid form.  Now they have no fangs... and the Wolves do.  But they still outnumber Greagoir's Wolves, and their throwing-spears do terrible damage at range.  And when reinforcement Tal-Vashoth come boiling out of the hills -- too many for Cullen to suppress them all, and in any case the Tal-Vashoth are harrying him and his escorts, having finally figured out what Cullen is -- things begin to look dire.

     Then they hear the challenge-howl of a strange Wolf arcing over the hills.  The Tal-Vashoth go still, and for the first time, Cullen sees fear enter their eyes.  " _Ebasit basvaraad!_ " one of them cries, in their strange tongue.  "The Hawke stoops!"  Hawke is the name of the alpha in this territory, Cullen recalls. 

     And at this cry, the Dragons disengage at once, grabbing the corpses of their fallen and regrouping for a retreat.  Cullen, panting for air, turns as Greagoir in Wolf shape comes running up to him.  Greagoir barks a command, and the other Wolves -- two have fallen, Maker keep them -- form a circle around Cullen.  The omega of any beast-unit is both its greatest strength and its weakness, so even a damaged, unbonded omega like Cullen must be protected at all costs.  Especially from strange Wolf packs which follow unknown codes of honor.

     The howls draw closer, then round the twisting trail.  The pack that appears consists of just ten new Wolves, though they move in formation like an arrow of retribution.  There is a male alpha at their head -- bigger than the others, stronger, black and tan and red-eyed with battle-lust -- and he charges straight past Greagoir's weary soldiers to slam into the retreating Tal Vashoth.  Some of them shift to drake form, having moved beyond range of Cullen's influence, but the new Wolves show no fear, leaping for these ones' throats before the shimmer of shifting magic has left them.  Some of the Tal Vashoth drop the bodies of their companions and flee; these are the only ones who survive.  The rest are fallen upon by the new Wolves, and brought down in seconds.

     Then while his Wolves howl their victory, the new alpha -- one of Leandra Hawke's rumored alpha sons, Cullen presumes -- comes trotting back to them, head held high and tail wagging with obvious pride in their victory.  It is disrespectful, a little; he is obviously much younger than the grizzled Greagoir, and it is obvious that the Kinloch Wolves have suffered in the battle, so Hawke should show at least some token gravity.  He does, but only once he stops before them, and only by shifting to human form first so that he becomes, theoretically, vulnerable before a possible rival.

     Theoretically.  Because in human form, young Hawke is still formidable:  tall and broad-shouldered in the heavy armor of a lieutenant, with a ready martial gait and a two-handed sword that is nearly as long as his body.  He's bigger than Greagoir, in both forms.  He's also younger than Cullen expected -- younger than Cullen, though not by much.  No untested boy, but also not the grizzled veteran that Cullen is used to seeing in a position of leadership.  An alpha so young probably isn't bonded yet... and unbonded alphas are often reckless, unstable creatures, kept in line only by a stronger alpha's command.  It is rare to see one at the head of his own troop.  An unorthodox pack, indeed.

     Cullen adopts an "at-attention" stance behind Greagoir, which warns Greagoir's other Wolves that they are not to growl or otherwise show threat.  They are, after all, guests in the Hawkes' territory... and they might need to fight again, if this alpha's self-control slips and Greagoir deems him in need of correction.  When Greagoir shifts to human, the rest of his Wolves do, too, in credible unison.

     "I know full sodding well my mother didn't tell you to come this route," Hawke says.  He isn't angry, which is the only thing that saves this statement from being a challenge to Greagoir's authority.  It's a matter-of-fact rudeness, which throws Cullen, and makes Greagoir blink.  "She'd have warned you that it's lousy with Dragons, which is precisely why we patrol out here every day.  You're cursed lucky we came along when we did."

     It's the bare truth -- but though alphas are rulers among beast-kind, good rulers do not usually deploy the truth so plainly.  An alpha of noble lineage, as this Hawke is supposed to be, should have at least dressed the truth in some flattery and small talk.  Cullen stares at him, unsure of whether to find him offensive.

     Greagoir too seems to wrestle through several responses before finally opting to ignore Hawke's utter lack of tact.  "Well met," he says.  To his credit, the greeting sounds only a little strained.  "And I thank you for your aid.  I am Alpha-Commander Greagoir, of Kinloch Hold -- "

     But Hawke, astonishingly, is nodding already.  "I know who you are," he _interrupts_.  "And there's no time for all the niceties -- not on the Wounded Coast.  I can't believe no one warned you about this place.  We've got to move before we're attacked again."

     Greagoir's frown deepens.  "The Dragons would charge again, so soon after being routed?"

     "What you met was less than half the flight," Hawke says grimly, which chills Cullen.  "We think there's a sten somewhere abouts -- their word for a male alpha -- getting them organized and maybe even readying them for an attack on Kirkwall.  Plus there's darkspawn, Tevinter slavers with Wild Witches among them, human bandits, and even a few pissed-off Dalish frolicking about.  And they'll all think -- rightly -- that those Dragons softened us up.  You need help carrying your dead?"

     It isn't rudeness, Cullen realizes, through a bit of a daze.  Hawke isn't trying to insult them.  He simply doesn't seem to care about making a good impression, or posturing, or any of the things that alphas are supposed to care about.  It is --

     (intriguing)

     -- most improper.

     Then Hawke glances at him, and Cullen tenses.  "Least you had sense enough to wear a scent suppressant," he says, nodding to Cullen with brusque courtesy.  "Smart; even I couldn't tell what you were, 'til I saw you smack a few of 'em out of beastshape.  And your shieldwork's sodding amazing.  Good to see Kinloch doesn't coddle its omegas."

     Cullen sets his jaw against anguish, and resolutely does not correct the man on the matter of the suppressant.  It's rather forward of Hawke to address an unrelated omega of an unallied pack without introduction, but apparently propriety just isn't the man's way.  "I have always sought to serve the Maker to my fullest, serrah alpha," Cullen says.  He's aware that he sounds overly formal, but he cannot help himself.  He is who he is.  Then, since Hawke seems to prefer business over niceties, he nods at Hawke's Wolves.  "If your troop remains within approximately a thirty-foot radius, I should be able to cleanse their animus as we run."

     Hawke blinks in surprise.  His eyes are no longer the red of an alpha in battle-fury; they have resumed their normal color, a startlingly bright blue.  That means the Gallows pack omega must be regularly keeping his animus in check, which is a wise thing to do with a young unbonded alpha.  But right now, Hawke is an alpha who has recently killed in battle, which means that the rage and bloodlust of a beast is alive and churning within him.  In a beta such a thing is immediately dangerous; after a few days, they lose themselves in their Wolves and forget they were ever human.  Alphas can bear much more, and even take on some of the  animus of their pack -- but unchecked, the rage and madness can transform them into inhuman horrors more terrifying than any abomination.  Only an omega can save them from this fate.

     "That's a neat trick," Hawke says, in genuine pleasure.  "Thirty feet?  Consistently, and on the run?  Maker.  Let's go, then." 

     Hawke beckons to all of them, and his Wolves fall in to another formation, though everyone's quick-stepping in humanshape now rather than running on all fours.  (A concession to Cullen, who cannot shift and must jog, human-slow.  How he loathes himself.)  Greagoir's Wolves, who are simply bunched together around Cullen, look less disciplined, and this troubles Cullen greatly.  He has _told_ Greagoir that human-style squadron drills and strategic formations would improve the pack...  But Greagoir is traditional.  In a traditional pack, omegas are to be protected, not listened to on combat strategy.

     "You'll have to teach that trick to the other omegas in our pack," Hawke continues.  He drops out of his own formation to walk parallel with Cullen, though young Beta-Private Tilley walks between them.  Cullen cannot tell if Hawke has done this deliberately, to reduce the impropriety of his behavior, or if Hawke doesn't care and has decided to simply talk over Tilley. "Not all of them are fighters, mind, but some of the ones who are came to it late, and haven't figured out the best way to use omega gifts in combat."

     Startled into confusion, Cullen wrestles through several possible explanations for Hawke's words before finally concluding that the simplest explanation must be the correct one.  "You have _multiple_ omegas in your pack?"  Omegas are the rarest of magic-kind.  Most are born amid humans, a few amid elves, and a pack is lucky to have more than one.

     "Just the seven."  Hawke lifts his head to scent the wind, then scowls and gestures for two of his Wolves to go scouting along a side-path.  The scout-Wolves shift and run off to deal with the matter.  "Sodding bandits.  They're not stupid enough to attack, but they're pacing us in case someone else does.  Ruvena and Paxley'll deal with them."

     Cullen, meanwhile, has stumbled and recovered, which he hopes Hawke did not notice.  Greagoir's mouth hangs open in undignified astonishment.  "Did you say that your pack has _seven_ omegas, serrah Hawke?" he blurts.

     "Eight, now," Hawke says, jerking his head at Cullen.  Does he even realize how impossible his words sound?  He does not seem to.  "Maurevar -- that's Mother's omega -- came out of a bad situation in his younger days, so he put the quash on alphas doing things to omegas without asking, long before I was whelped.  Because of it, damn near every unattached omega in the territory has found a way to present themselves at our gates in the past few years.  I suppose we've gotten a bit of a reputation."  As Cullen processes this, Hawke raises his mailed fist to make some kind of complicated gesture-command at the Wolves bringing up the rear.  The formation shifts a little as those Wolves tighten up.  "Turns out lots of omegas don't like being slaves to any alpha who wants 'em, go figure."

     "But it is their duty," Cullen murmurs, though his daze.  "To submit themselves to the needs of a pack -- "

     "A _pack_ , sure."  Hawke's voice has turned sharp.  He's glaring at Cullen, though Cullen senses that it isn't angry.  This is just something Hawke feels strongly about.  "Alphas and omegas both have a duty to pack and the Maker-Wolf, right.  But not every alpha out there's got a pack, or what it takes to run one.  And too many of those weak, chickenshit alphas take it into their heads that omegas are toys to collect.  We don't tolerate that in the Gallows."  Then he nods to Cullen, firmly, in a way that Cullen belatedly realizes is meant to reassure.  "Nobody'll lay a finger on you here unless you invite 'em.  We beastkin might all be fucking monsters, but we don't have to be _arseholes_ about it."

     And with that, he nods to Greagoir -- with obvious politeness this time, if still too-familiarly -- and picks up pace to rejoin his Wolves' formation.  Leaving Cullen stunned and deeply unnerved, in his wake.

#

     The Gallows is a massive, foreboding, ancient edifice whose walls reek of long-held pain and fear.  This evil ended more recently than Cullen likes -- no more than a generation ago, his omega senses suggest, but something on this level is beyond any single omega's ability to grasp or master.  Only horrors on a massive scale -- torture, blood magic, mass killing -- can generate this degree of animus.  Kirkwall's slave-trading past is centuries gone, so this must have been the work of Alpha-Commander Hawke's predecessor.

     Now, however, the Gallows is a place of comfortable competence.  Cullen casts a close eye on the Witches going about their business in the courtyard, and sees no troubling signs.  They are in good flesh, confident but not profligate in the use of their magic, and they do not seem uneasy under the watchful eyes of their Wolf guardians.  There are many children among them -- but pitifully few elder Witches, which matches Cullen's knowledge of the place.  The old Alpha-Commander is said to have killed Witches gratuitously, before Leandra Hawke and her mates put them down.  Cullen has no great love of Witches after the Incident... but seeing these happy, healthy Witches, he finds himself approving.

     When they are ushered in to see her, Cullen also sees that the Lady Hawke herself is a stately, beautiful woman of visible Kirkwallian noble extraction:  broad-shouldered for a woman, graceful, with pale skin and hair that was once dark, now gone slate gray.  Her armor, while well-fitted and -polished, shows the patina of long use.  Cullen is somewhat astonished to see that her weapon of choice is a _rapier_ , but it suits her.  An elegant, precise weapon for an elegant, precise ruling alpha.

     When Greagoir, Beta-Corporal Hadley, and Cullen file into the Gallows' central chamber, Cullen is not entirely surprised to see that Hawke has arranged it rather like a throne room.  It's not quite large enough to be properly so, which keeps the arrangement from being ostentatious, but nevertheless there is a wide bench set at the center of the room, where the Lady sits with her hands primly folded, sword propped on the bench arm but near to hand.  To the right of her throne stands a pale, dark-haired man in his sixties or so, clad in beautifully-embroidered mage's robes and carrying a gnarled staff that practically vibrates with his magic.  To her left stands a grizzled old Wolf in human form, wearing the armor of a Captain -- but Cullen knows this thrum of sympathetic magic.  This then is the infamous omega Maurevar Carver, said to have betrayed his corrupt alpha by freeing a Witch and running off, before offering himself to the Lady.  Maurevar is, unsurprisingly, a handsome man even in his elder years:  lean and dark brown of skin, with neat graying locks tied back from a squared, strong-featured face.

     But an _omega_ Captain!  And a Witch mate, as Greagoir said -- not hidden away like a secret, but here standing before guests!  _Two_ mates at once!  It is not _done_ , and yet Leandra Hawke has done it, without shame.  Cullen finds himself staring at these strange, mad people who will soon demand his allegiance, and wondering if Greagoir has made a mistake.

     The younger Hawke makes the introductions -- properly, now that they are out of danger, and under his mother's stern eye.  Greagoir presents himself formally, as is proper for the ruling alpha of one pack seeking alliance with another, and Lady Hawke responds with all the appropriate greetings.  It's all going smoothly until the small talk is done, and then the Lady sighs and turns her gray-eyed gaze upon Cullen.  "Maker's Breath.  You explained the situation, Greagoir, but I don't think I'd realized the extent of the damage.  You've been here thirty minutes and I still can't scent him."

     Cullen freezes, horrified and uncertain, but Greagoir sighs and relaxes from his formal stance.  "I wanted to be honest about his condition.  But it is Cullen's superb control of his omega abilities which saved us on the Wounded Coast, as your son will attest."

     And the young Hawke nods, though he's frowning at Cullen with a hint of confusion.  "Better than any omega I've ever seen.  Including you, Maur," he says, nodding to the old omega.  "Cleansed the whole pack of us, at force-march speed and after a battle against Dragons, no less.  Usually I'm wallowing in the red for days after fighting those f -- "  His mother eyes him; he corrects himself mid-curse.  " -- fellows."

     Maurevar snorts in amusement, but then he eyes Cullen.  "Chantry-reared, were you?  And fostered among Wolves?"

     Cullen takes a deep breath for calm and fixes his gaze on a point just above Maurevar's shoulder.  "Yes -- "  And then he stumbles, wondering what even to _call_ an omega who is a captain.  It is not done.  But his sense of propriety will not permit him to offer anything less than the highest respect to a ruling alpha's mate.  "Omega-C-Captain Maurevar, yes.  As is the tradition with Ferelden omegas."

     Maurevar seems to consider this.  "Ever been out drinking, Omega Cullen?"

     "I -- "  The words do not make sense.  Cullen blinks rapidly, completely thrown.  "I --   _Serrah?_ "

     "Out.  Drinking.  With the fellows, or the lasses, or the dwarves if those suit you.  Have you been?"

     Cullen can only stare at him, openmouthed.  Young Hawke coughs a little, visibly stifling a smile.  The old Witch is throwing a fond look at his omega mate; apparently Maurevar asks such outlandish questions all the time.  Maurevar's face is the picture of pleasantry.  It isn't a joke.

     Greagoir saves him, clearing his throat uneasily.  "Naturally, Cullen has remained within the protection of the pack at all times.  We of Kinloch would never be so neglectful of his safety as to let him mingle with -- "

     "His safety?" Lady Hawke says.  She's lifted an eyebrow, and her displeasure is palpable.  "If I may remind you, Greagoir, you're here because his safety was compromised.  _Within_ the protective bosom of your pack."

     It is as if a cold gust has blown through the chamber.  Witch Hawke's smile vanishes.  Greagoir stiffens, his eyes flaring deep, dark red.  He does not issue challenge, because that would be the height of impropriety, but it's clear that he is angry.  Young Hawke shifts, just a little, angling himself to stand between his parents and Greagoir if it comes to that.  Cullen immediately unclasps his hands, so that he can be ready to draw his sword and guard Greagoir's back. 

     Before anything can come to anything, however, the Lady raises a hand.  "Peace, Greagoir.  I meant no insult -- only truth, as you've offered truth to us."

     Cullen sees Greagoir un-bristle, just a little, before he says, "Truth.  Which is often harsh, yes.  I will concede that."

     The Lady inclines her head, and then focuses on Cullen.  "Omegas are not children, young man," she says.  It's firm, but there is something in her tone, a soothingly maternal emanation, that Cullen has not heard since he left the Den Mothers' cloister.  "That's what Maurevar is getting at.  If you _choose_ to join this pack -- "  And oh, Cullen is stunned to hear her emphasize that word, _choose_ , "then you will of course be protected, because the world is full of the unscrupulous, and an unbonded omega has unique vulnerabilities.  But it is your personhood, and not your virtue, that every Wolf in this pack will fight to defend.  If you desire an alpha as mate, and you find a compatable one within this pack, we will rejoice.  But if you want no alpha, and never mate... we will also rejoice.  Do you see?  What the Gallows desires is _you_ , Omega Cullen, and whatever skills you bring to the table.  As yourself, not as an alpha's mate.  Is that understood?"

     It is almost incomprehensible.  What is an omega, without an alpha?  But since that is a question Cullen has been trying to answer since the Incident... he understands, suddenly, why Greagoir has brought him here.  In Kinloch, the question's answer was clear:  without an alpha, an omega is a burden.  No matter how good Cullen becomes with his sword and shield, and no matter how skillfully he wields his powers, he slows the pack down.  He is bred to lead, forced by circumstance to do nothing but follow. 

     But in this bizarre pack...

     Greagoir looks so sad, Cullen notices at last.  As if he has failed Cullen, instead of the other way around.  That's wrong.  For him, then, Cullen will take the only honorable option.

     He faces the Lady and drops to one knee, baring the back of his neck as is proper.  "I... understand, Alpha-Commander Hawke."

     She sounds pleased.  "And do you consent to join the pack of the Gallows, Omega Cullen, with all attendant responsibilities and privileges?"

     "I do, Alpha-Commander."

     She rises then:  a smaller-than-average woman radiating the gravitas of a mountain.  Cullen feels everything within him that craves submission, everything that is _omega_ , settle in anticipation.  He knows no way to tell his own body that this is not a mating; she will put no teeth in him.  No one ever will.  But instinct does not care about existential despair.

     It does help to soothe his instincts somewhat, however, when she stops before him and bends to clasp a firm hand over the back of his neck.  There is strength in her hand, and kindness, and -- somehow -- protectiveness.  Cullen's omega self shivers somewhere within him, and then calms, reorienting itself to the service of a new alpha.  It isn't as good as being claimed, but it will do.

     "Then welcome to Kirkwall, Cullen," she says then.  He does not dare to feel hope, but at least he is no longer afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

     They assign him to a languid elven fellow omega named Zevran, to manage Cullen's integration into the pack.

     "There are six people here that you have to worry about, serrah," Zevran says in a gentle Antivan accent, waving casually to a beta here, a beta there.  They wave or nod back, and watch Cullen with curiosity.  Cullen keeps his gaze fixed ahead, resisting the urge to look around.  If he does, he knows that he will notice the betas trying to scent him, and frowning in confusion when they can't.  Best to simply pay attention to the courtyard, which is huge, and the merchant area, which is huge, and the huge dock area, which manages half the city's commerce (overseen by the Wolves, of course for a percentage), and the practice yard, which is huge.  Everything about the Gallows, including the sheer size of the Lady Hawke's pack, dwarfs Kinloch.

     "Not all of the people you need to know are your fellow omegas," Zevran continues as they walk.  "Most of us try to lay low, to be honest.  We all do our part to contribute to the pack, of course, but we do it in our own ways, and most of us were not raised among beastkin or as warriors.  One of the female omegas is an ex-farmgirl, for example.  She works with the kitchens and quartermaster, negotiating prices on our provisions and arranging logistics -- delivery, supply lines, and so on."  He considers Cullen.  "Don't suppose you have any special skills?  We could really use someone good at sewing."

     _Sewing?_   Cullen stares at him.  "No.  My only skills are..."  Tactics.  Military supply.  Combat.  Magic suppression.  Pack leadership.  "...administrative."

     "Ah.  Well, I suppose the Merchant Guild will keep having us over a barrel on the manufacture of our gambesons, then."

     Cullen cannot fathom an omega doing such business.  "And what is your contribution, Omega Zevran, if I may ask?"

     "Oh..."  Zevran shrugs, with a smile that for some reason sends a little chill down Cullen's spine.  "Problem-solving, I suppose.  The Lady did grow up amid the human Amell noble clan, after all, and she still understands that some matters are better dealt with at the point of a poisoned blade than on tooth and claw.  And I, conveniently, was raised by the Antivan Crows."  He laughs, as if confessing to being _an omega assassin_ is the most amusing of jokes.

     Cullen manages not to stumble, just, though he does stare.  He has heard of the Crows, of course, but discovering that they train omegas is stunning, and disturbing.  An omega could get very close to powerful alphas, seducing them with his scent.  Even human nobles would relax in an omega's presence; it is their nature to soothe animus of all kinds.  And then Zevran...  Maker bless.

     With a little sigh, Zevran dismisses the matter and nods toward a corner of the main hall.  Cullen looks up to see a handsome red-haired man of middle years directing a class of young Wolves -- which at five teenagers is huge too to Cullen's eye, but then there were no juvenile Wolves left at Kinloch after the Incident.

     "That is Alpha-Lieutenant Thrask," Zevran says, chin-pointing at the man.  "He's been serving here since the days of the old Alpha-Commander.  But when he was younger, he found a sweet elven omega and struck out to make a pack of his own, the old fashioned way -- by cranking out a bunch of pups with her.  Alas; his mate died in first childbirth, and he came back here.  Hasn't taken an omega, or even a beta, to bed since.  Poor heartbroken fellow.  Hasn't stopped Keran, there, from wishing."

     And then Cullen notices the young man in armor standing just behind Thrask, like a majordomo -- or an omega on combat attendance to an alpha.  It relieves Cullen to see that he isn't the only proper omega in the pack.  This isn't combat, however, and Thrask doesn't look like he needs a bit of animus anulled.  Keran nevertheless watches his every move with a hunter's intensity.

     Zevran shakes his head, sighing.  "Poor fool's going to work himself into a true heat at this rate, and there's no reason to think Thrask will take care of him.  Ah, youth.  In any case, you need to know all the alphas, so Thrask is one of the six."

     "And Alpha-Commander Hawke and her mates?"

     "Certainly, though you know them already."  Zevran tilts his head dismissively.  "The Lady Hawke's children, as well, if they weren't there at your introduction.  She has a Witch daughter who lives here as well, but she is often busy with Witch business and rarely seen.  Her sons are both alphas.  It's always difficult when siblings are alphas; they can't help getting competitive, even vicious, with each other.  The Lady keeps them in line, though, and they never fight.  Overtly, anyhow."

     Cullen frowns.  He has met only one Hawke boy, whom he assumed to be the elder and heir.  "The one I met was a fine leader, if uncouth," he says, thoughtful.  "He had no sense of propriety.  But his Wolves were disciplined and effective in battle..."

     "If only that narrowed it down!" Zevran says with a laugh.  They have entered the Gallows' main building, where Cullen sees facilities shared with the Witches:  cafeteria, magical combat practice, the baths for lower ranked Wolves and Witch apprentices.  "Tell me:  what kind of sword was he wielding, the one you met?"

     "A Claymore, I believe."

     "Ah, then that was Carver.  The youngest.  Garrett uses a longsword and shield."  Zevran smiles back at Cullen over his shoulder.  "You'll want to get to know them both."

     There is an innuendo in nearly everything Zevran has said thus far, but it seems especially pointed now.  Cullen frowns.  "Why do you say that?"

     Zevran shrugs.  "Merely that there are seven unattached omegas here, and only five alphas to see to us all.  Three, really, since The Lady keeps to Maurevar and Malcolm, and Thrask isn't in the game."

     Oh, blessed Maker.  Cullen is fairly certain of what Zevran means, and it reddens his face, but he has to ask.  "'See to'...?"

     "I believe you know exactly what I mean, serrah."  Zevran's smile is sly, his gaze so frank that Cullen cannot meet it for more than a moment.  "Let me be blunt.  The thing we've figured out here is that when there are enough omegas in a pack, our scent stops having the usual effect on the alphas.  They still _like_ the scent, but they have little compulsion to kidnap and assault us, as it were.  They may behave like civilized people, which means that we can, as well.  And what we've also discovered is that when there are enough unbonded alphas around, the pack's omegas grow a little, hmm, _itchy_ , once a month or so." 

     Cullen stares at him with confusion and growing unease.  "I, I have heard of, ah, heat."  It is the dark secret of omegas, once they mature; without an alpha's attendance -- in the carnal sense -- their bodies begin to demand it.  The Chantry Den Mothers warned Cullen that he could even die, without an alpha.  But Cullen was not old enough to descend into heat before the Incident, and since, he has felt nothing.

     "It's not heat," Zevran assures him.  "It won't harm you, if you prefer to spend it alone.  The Witches, who endlessly like to classify things, have been calling it _pseudo-heat_.  But believe me, having experienced it... you will _prefer_ to have that itch scratched.  And the Lady's boys are two scratchers of superb quality."  He sighs a little with shamelessly wanton remembered pleasure, as Cullen twitches with horror.  "I generally recommend Garrett, the elder brother.  He gives you what you need."  He sighs a little.  "Carver, the younger, isn't bad, however.  Not as experienced, which isn't surprising -- he's six years younger -- but he makes up for that with enthusiasm.  And he gives omegas what we _want_ , so to speak.  Maybe too much."

     Cullen shakes his head, dazed.  He should not ask.  This whole conversation is so inappropriate that his old Den Mother would have washed Zevran's mouth with soap by now, if she'd heard any of this.  He splutters, "What... what could we want _too much_?"

     Zevran sighs sadly.  "Romance.  Tenderness, chivalry, all of that.  Everyone tells omegas that alphas will be kind and noble, only whisking you away when you want and only doing things to you that you desire.  The reality is..."  He grimaces.  "Something less than that.  But it isn't as if we ever stop _wishing_ for what we were promised.  Yes?  And Carver actually tries to give it to you.  Silly boy."  Zevran shakes his head, regretfully.  "Garrett understands.  'Get your clothes off, then,' and he puts you on the floor or up against a wall and doesn't bother taking an inventory of your likes and dislikes first.  He certainly isn't cruel, but he doesn't make it more than it is.  Why torment yourself with something you can't really have?"

     That is the raw and awful truth that Cullen still struggles to accept, but what Zevran suggests is also unconscionable.  Cullen stares at him, appalled.  "You're speaking of _mounting out of bondlock_ ," he says, dropping his voice.  He can hardly bear to speak the words.  "Of -- of --  The alphas here would do such a thing?  Take an omega and, and simply..."

     "Fuck them crosseyed, _not_ bind them, and walk away?"  Zevran snorts.  "Certainly.  They had better, because most of the omegas here don't _want_ to be bound, and an alpha who violates an omega's consent here gets exiled at best, executed at worst.  They told you that, yes?  It's different, here."

     Cullen shakes his head, trying and failing to comprehend.  Cullen cannot mate due to the Incident, but if not for that, he would gladly submit to an alpha.  For what other purpose did the Maker make omegas, if not that?  "Why...?"  He can't even articulate it.

     "Well, I am a case in point," Zevran says.  "I could have an alpha, easily.  But for one thing, I like being an elf.  Becoming a Wolf seems so messy.  There's hair everywhere, and it's so easy to get fleas.  For another, alphas don't do anything particular for me.  I suppose that is the Crows' training; when you have murdered enough alphas in the dark, they lose quite a bit of their appeal."

     Cullen winces.  "I see how that might be."

     "Yes!  It's terrible."  But Zevran laughs again.  He really does laugh at the most inappropriate times.  "In any case, when pseudo-heats come upon me, I generally seek out Garrett.  But outside of that?  What I _prefer_ is..."  His gaze slides toward, and over, Cullen.  "Other omegas."

     "I..."  Taken aback, Cullen is too mindblown to fully register that this is a flirtation.  "What?  How...?"

     Zevran smirks.  "The 'how' is 'just like with an alpha,' actually, but with a lot less bossiness and being held down."  He wrinkles his nose.  "I appreciate that we're wired to need that.  Useful when you're trying to kill someone.  But what I _want_ , most of the time anyway, is leisurely sensuality.  I want to take all day with it.  You see?"

     Cullen, who has never been with anyone but a beta, and that only to learn the basics of the exercise, is blushing deeply enough that his face aches.  "Ah... _no_ , I do not know."

     Zevran's smile widens.  "You have the most charming blushes.  We can discuss it at another time, however."  They move on, giving Cullen time to recover from the scandal of the whole thing.

     In addition to Thrask and the Hawkes, Zevran points out a female alpha drilling a squad of betas in Silencings, in one of the warded salles.  She's tall and broad in her armor, barking her orders in a deep, commanding voice; Cullen immediately straightens, so that he might look his best should her eye fall upon him.  This is Alpha-Lieutenant Aveline, Zevran informs him, most likely to rise to Alpha-Captain when Maurevar steps down.  If she were in the line of succession, it's clear she would likely be heir already... and if the Hawke boys are not worthy of leadership when the time comes, it's clear she will not tolerate them above her. 

     "You wouldn't know it to look at her," Zevran confides, "but she's a monster in bed.  She had an omega, too, and they were all set to build their own pack, but he died in the Blight, poor fellow.  Now she's been giving Donnic the eye.  He's a Kirkwaller omega.  Prickly fellow, won't have any alpha who can't beat him in battle -- and she can.  But he's oblivious as a rock, and she's terrible at flirting."  Zevran rolls his eyes.  "We've got bets on whether they'll ever manage it outside of Donnic going into heat or Aveline losing her senses and stealing him outright.  But in the meantime, she's also rather good at itch-scratching."

     Cullen blushes, and resolves to make time with his hand if it ever comes to that. 

     But as Zevran leads him back toward the omegas' wing, Cullen frowns.  "You said six people."

     "Yes."  And Zevran sighs in a way that warns Cullen something unpleasant is coming.  "I'm taking you to see him."

     They walk through the courtyard, and presently stop at the Formari stand, where a pleasant middle-aged Tranquil does such an amazing job of emulating emotions that Cullen has to double-check for the sunburst mark.  But they're not at the stand to peruse the merchandise.  Zevran keeps his gaze focused on it while he says to Cullen, "Behind me, six o'clock.  The dark-skinned fellow reading in the tower shadow."

     And Cullen looks around to see the man that Zevran means.  He looks like a mage, for a moment; he's wearing faded old robes rather than trousers, and the book compounds the issue.  But his eyes are brighter than a human's, and there is a furtiveness to his manner, a tendency to check all quarters to make certain he isn't being observed -- Cullen quickly looks away -- that tells Cullen the truth.  The man is an omega.  One who has been turned, and perhaps traumatized in some way.

     "That is Alain," Zevran says.  "Our proof that no matter how vigilant the Lady is, no matter how different this pack tries to be, we omegas still must take care.  There used to be six alphas here, see."  Zevran's lip curls.  "Alpha-Lieutenant Karras.  No one liked him, but he toed the line, so people got lax."  He shakes his head.  "And then one night Karras dragged Alain up to one of the unoccupied towers during a patrol shift change, and claimed him against his will."

     Cullen frowns.  It is nothing more than he has been taught to expect of alphas, which is why he has taken great care to stay within the protective embrace of his pack at all times, lest he be stolen by someone unworthy.  Bonding is supposed to be a joyous and pleasurable thing, good for alpha and omega alike, but there are always rumors of how badly it can go.  And Zevran's grim look tells Cullen that at least some of those rumors are true.

     Still.  Things truly are different in this pack, because they are _angry_ about what has happened to this Alain, rather than merely resigned to the loss of an omega's happiness.  It is a most curious attitude.  Trying to puzzle it out, Cullen ventures, "You said the alphas here feel no claiming-compulsion."

     "They don't.  Karras hurt Alain because he _wanted_ to.  Because he's a shitstain on the smallclothes of Wolfkind."  Cullen winces at the profanity, but Zevran is unapologetic.  "He actually scared poor Alain into not saying anything about it for a while.  The other Wolves noticed his scent-change, naturally, but they assumed Alain had agreed to it.  But the Lady called him in to ask him about it -- because everyone had seen too that Alain was miserable in his supposed bonded bliss.  Then the truth came out.  Karras ran off before the Hawkes could corner him, but they mean to have his liver on a platter.  Karras has gone into hiding, however.  Even I haven't been able to find him."

     Maker.  "I suppose he must be punished to enforce the rules."  Then, however, this Alain will have to reconcile himself to his unwanted mate.  Alain has already been turned into a Wolf, after all, and breaking the bond can be harmful to an omega, even in a case like this one.  Cullen sighs in pity.  How strange, and terrible, to encounter someone in a worse situation than his own.  It puts things in perspective.  "I shall be mindful of Omega Alain's, ah, injury, then," he says.  "I thank you for warning me, so that I might avoid awkward topics of conversation."

     Zevran looks surprised.  "Oh -- well, yes, you should be kind to him, but that isn't what I meant.  Karras wants Alain back, you see."  His lip curls.  "We hear him howling for his omega from Sundermount sometimes, or the Wounded Coast, or the Bone Pit.  And since the Hawkes cannot catch him, it's up to us to take care of our own."  Then Zevran levels a killer's look at Cullen.  "You smell a strange alpha on the wind?  Raise the alarm immediately.  And if you get the chance?  Kill him."  Cullen flinches in shock.  For an _omega_ to say this... but Zevran's expression leaves no doubt as to his sincerity or willingness to carry out the sentence himself.  "Cut his useless heart out.  And bring it to Alain on a platter, to burn."

#

     It is truly the strangest of packs, this new family of Cullen's.  He resolves to do his best to integrate with them, however, if for no reason other than to do Greagoir proud.

     He is given quarters on one of the three floors alotted to the pack's omegas -- floors that are guarded, warded, and locked, to Cullen's relief.  The apartment is sumptuous compared to what he had at Kinloch:  his own bathing-chamber, and a bed so large that it is clearly meant for two.  (He blushes at the thought.)  But there is no armor-rack, which is simply unacceptable.  Cullen is forced to lay his armor on a towel, that first night, since it is past the dinner hour and no decent unattached omega goes out after dark.  In the morning, he goes seeking the practice yard, where the Gallows Wolves have said he can find the quartermaster.

     The yard is lively when Cullen arrives.  Like everything else about this pack, it's huge, with different areas for the various members' martial training.  Cullen walks past a row of archery targets where five young Wolves diligently try not to shoot the wall behind the targets, and mostly succeed.  There are striking dummies, a sandy area where two armor-less Wolves stripped to the waist grapple in hand-to-hand, and a wooden salle where two others dart about with knives, liquid-quick.  It has always been said that a Wolf pack should be prepared for war at all times, because that's simply the nature of Thedas -- one never knows when darkspawn or an invading Dragon horde will appear.  But this is the first time Cullen has seen a pack that actually looked ready to take on any threat to Thedas.  It is a heady, heartening thing to see, and he finds himself walking with a lighter step for the first time since Greagoir brought him to this place.

     He finds the quartermaster near the back of the yard, beneath the statue of a humanshape Omega Andraste walking beside her mate, the Maker-Wolf.  The quartermaster is surprised that Cullen wants an armor rack, though he is quick to remedy the problem, promising Cullen that one will be sent up within the day.  It reminds Cullen yet again of how _strange_ this pack is.  In Ferelden, the only omegas Cullen has met are like himself:  fighters or at least skilled enough to defend themselves, going armed and armored at all times.  Here, as Zevran said, they contribute in whatever way they wish, and those ways are not always of the sword.

     He does not understand it.  He cannot fathom whether he likes it.  For now, he strives only to accept the strangeness.

     On his way back to the practice yard gates, however, Cullen's attention is caught by the sounds of swords clashing, and the appreciative murmur from a watching crowd.  There's a ring of people over to one side of the yard, so Cullen drifts in that direction, curious.

     Here he finds the younger Hawke, Carver, in heated sparring with one of the other alphas -- the older, female one, Aveline.  He _thinks_ it's sparring, at least; they blur together, clashing with such ferocity that Cullen actually checks for sharp teeth.  But they are in humanshape, their armor-sheathed frames tight with tension, teeth bared but blunt.  It is this, at least, which reassures Cullen somewhat, because both of them are grinning, between hard breaths.  Pleasure, not savagery, motivates them.

     Still, they are alphas both, and nature itself makes this contest dangerous.  He holds his breath until Carver, whose combat form is wilder -- marvelously controlled for a two-hander, but this is why Cullen prefers the longsword -- neatly fouls Aveline's sword to the ground and kicks away her shield.  His eyes flare red, and he snarls, "And here's where I'd shift and bite your throat out if this was real."

     She growls back, her own eyes blazing red -- but she yields and lowers her gaze, thank the Maker, uttering a frustrated sigh as she sets her arms down.  Carver steps back to set his own down, then offers her a hand up, as the watching crowd breaks into applause.  It's friendly.  Just fierce.

     And Cullen thinks, watching Carver, _I could take him_.

     The words are on his lips as Carver turns to the crowd and lifts his arms in blatant invitation to whoever else wants to try him.  The Wolves cheer and clap, and Cullen does too, but...  If this was Kinloch, he would step up.  At Kinloch, he sparred regularly with Greagoir to keep the old Wolf in shape, and with plenty of the betas.  He'd been better than all of them.  And he is a match for this Hawke, he feels certain.  Some lonely, thwarted part of him sings for the chance to have an alpha to himself, even in just this small way, but --

     -- but he is an omega, and it is improper of him to challenge an alpha of his pack.  So he bites the urge back, and sighs in frustration.

     Then the dispersing crowd parts to allow another young man into the circle.  It's easy to see at once that this is the elder Hawke pup, whom Zevran named Garrett.  The two warriors are a match in build, though the elder wears Captain-rank armor to Carver's Lieutenant.  And there is a palpable wiliness in his manner, as he takes in Aveline and the discarded swords.  It's also immediately discernible that Carver Hawke tenses, just a little, at the sight of him.  "Really?" Garrett drawls to Aveline.  "He actually beat you this time?"

     Aveline, busy working her shoulders to ease tension, shrugs somewhere amid this.  "Two for five, actually.  You missed the last match, Hawke, off doing whatever it is you do.  Carver's getting to be a monster with that blade."

     Cullen is confused for a moment, until he realizes that to Aveline, the elder brother is _Hawke_ and the younger is Carver.  Cullen is already used to thinking of the younger as Hawke, from the Wounded Coast.  And Carver is studiously ignoring _Hawke_ , as he picks up his sword and heads over to the side of the ring, where a beta hands him a cloth to mop his face.

     "Is that so?"  Hawke asks, bemused.  He puts a hand on one hip to regard Carver.  "Well, Carver?  Shall we put you to the test?"

     "No sodding need," Carver says.  He's making a good show of being casual, but everyone can hear the edge in his voice.  "Stood you to a draw once; that was enough for me.  And you know as well as I that Mother'll have our tails if we do."

     One of the older betas catches Cullen's arm and tugs at him.  Everyone else is loosening away from the circle, too, or pulling at others.  "Come away, lad," the beta says, frowning at the ring.  "Aveline'll keep them in line, for now, but they're both worse when there's an audience."

     Cullen blinks in surprise, but goes with the man.  "Pardon, serrah beta?"

     "Them two."  The man sighs as they walk.  "Last time they sparred, they went at it for _three solid hours_ before that draw.  Brutal.  And neither of 'em was any good the next day.  So the Lady said they're not allowed again, 'til they can figure out how to spar like packmates and not sodding enemies."

     "Yeah, but," mutters another beta who's overheard, with a worried look back, "that's just not how it works.  Never good to have two alphas in a pack who are evenly matched _and_ blood.  They can't help keeping at each other, 'til one bends the neck."

     Evenly matched?  Cullen frowns at them, then glances back at the tableau.  Garrett Hawke is older, more confident, and higher-ranked.  But it's there in their body language, Cullen realizes, though both men are just chatting while Carver drinks from a bucket someone's brought him.  Garrett _should_ be the clear superior of the two alphas, or at least enough to feel no competition from Carver.  But Garrett, for all his smiling and airs, is completely oriented on Carver, watching his every move, leaning a little in his direction even.  _He shouldn't be so focused_ , Cullen thinks, in surprise.  Not if Garrett is the superior.  But it's clear why he does:  because Carver's back is straight and, when he meets his older brother's gaze, he doesn't look away.  It is less an overt challenge than a persistent refusal to submit -- but alphas _need_ submission.  As the beta said, it is instinct.

     "We're just lucky there were no omegas around this time," the old beta says, with a sigh.  "That's as bad as a crowd."

     Cullen stops in his tracks.  The other beta, the one who named the Hawkes matched, blinks at Cullen.  Then his eyes widen in recognition.  "Oh, Maker's Breath.  I'd heard -- Gelin, damn it."

     The old beta stops too, and blinks at Cullen, who has bowed his head.  His eyes widen.  "Oh, Void.  Sorry, lad, it's just... you don't quite smell like an omega.  You wearing a suppressant?"

     It never changes.  It _will_ never change.  Cullen will be like this forever, and he might as well get used to it.

     "No," he says quietly, and pivots to leave the betas behind.  It is a little rude, but he has no strength left to be polite, for now.

     That evening, Greagoir and the rest of the Kinloch Wolves take their leave.  Without Cullen burdening them, they're going to shift and run for the journey back, which is a faster mode of travel for Wolves than anything else.  Night is the perfect time to set out for this.  Cullen meets them in the courtyard to bid farewell.  There must be something in his face or manner that signals his massive unhappiness -- though he has striven to keep his face impassive -- because Greagoir actually hugs him, with a heavy sigh.

     "I believe you will be happy here, eventually, my boy," he says.  "Truly.  Just be strong, and the Maker will provide."

     It's a thin comfort, but faith is better than nothing.  

"See that Carroll keeps up his shieldwork practice," Cullen reminds Greagoir, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety.  He has been part of Greagoir's pack for more than half his life.  And though Lady Hawke formally accepted him the previous night, that did not feel like an ending.  This does.  "He's good, but he can be better.  And do tell Irving not to let you stay up all hours reading, especially before you have morning patrol.  And I left the account books in order, if you remember the cipher -- "

     "Cullen."  Greagoir sighs and takes him by the shoulders until he subsides.  "It _will_ be well, my boy."

     If only Cullen could believe that.

     But he straightens, because he means to represent Kinloch well.  He puts a fist to his chest in salute; Greagoir returns it.  Then they shift and are gone, leaving Cullen to find his place among the strange.


	3. Chapter 3

     In the morning Cullen is miserable, after a long and sleepless night of fretting.  Since he's awake anyway, he rises at dawn and heads down to the practice field.  Perhaps an hour or two of punishing a target dummy will ease him.

     But he is not alone, he finds as he reaches the yard.  A very few other Wolves of the pack are there, warming up or yawning as they cut through the yard on their way to the barracks after night duty.  In the sparring ring, however, there is Carver Hawke -- armorless, clad in nothing but his boots and old trousers, drenched in sweat as he works through some sort of complicated series of forms with his sword.  It's almost as if he never left.

     Cullen turns his eyes away, as is proper, and keeps his head down as he passes the sparring ring.  Carver does not seem to see him, or ignores him, which is just as well.  There's no telling why an alpha is down here half naked, stabbing imaginary enemies to death.  They are the members of beastkind who skirt the line of inhumanity most closely; it makes them stranger than ordinary folk, and one must sometimes just accept their peculiarities.

     He takes up some of the blunted, light-weighted practice arms from the rack and sets to at one of the dummies.  It immediately makes him feel better, as he concentrates on something other than how out of sorts he feels, how much he misses his old packmates, how tired he is of being mistaken for human, and how lonely.  He sets himself the challenge of tagging each target on the dummy at its midpoint, rather than just counting it a hit if he lands anywhere on the mark.  There is an easy satisfaction in letting his hands and skills do what they were made for.  If he can serve the Maker in no other way, then at least he might be --

     "-- I said, 'You!'  Uh, Cullen, right?  Cullen!"

     Cullen starts out of battle fugue, stumbling a little, and turns to find Carver standing there, glaring at him.

     Or -- no, not glaring, not quite.  Carver is angry about something, and it radiates off him like heat, but otherwise he just has resting murder face, Cullen has noticed.  None of that anger is directed at Cullen.  But Carver is still half naked, so Cullen politely turns his gaze to the bare-trodden ground beneath his feet.  "Yes, serrah alpha?"

     "Oh, don't sodding call me that, you know my name.  Or did you forget?  It's Carver.  I said, you want to spar?"

     Cullen catches his breath, and so forgets himself as to lift his eyes, nudity or no.  "You -- with you?"  Greagoir did, but Greagoir was old and long-mated.  Young, unmated alphas do not spar with omegas, or so the Chantry Den Mothers taught him.  Alphas hunt omegas and court them and whenever possible, mount them.  But that is not possible with Cullen --

     Carver is grimacing as if Cullen has said something particularly stupid.  "I asked, didn't I?  Yes or no?"

     Cullen should say no.  It is improper.  And yet the previous day's hunger suddenly awakens in Cullen.  _I could take him_ , he thinks again, and inexplicably his cheeks heat at the double entendre.  But, well... he could.

     So Cullen draws himself up.  "I believe that I shall accept your offer, yes.  Thank you, serrah alpha."  He lifts his practice sword in salute.

     Carver stares for a moment, then chuckles.  "Maker, are all proper omegas so mannered?  Come on, then."  He turns to head back to the ring, and Cullen follows.  That's awkward, because he cannot look at the ground if he wants to keep his feet.  Looking up forces him to notice Carver's broad, muscled back, and to notice the low-slung waist of his trousers, and to note the economical if predatory manner of his walk.  In his younger years, growing quickly into such a body, Carver must have been awkward as a puppy, but now that he has learned himself, he is as lithe and strong as his Wolf shape, and he is --

     -- not someone Cullen should be ogling.  Blushing, Cullen fixes his gaze on the sparring ring until they reach it.

     Carver takes up a presentation stance opposite him.  "Want to do wood instead of metal?  These can leave a mark even if they don't cut."  He jiggles his two-hander.

     "I would have metal, if you will."  Cullen actually prefers to use his own blade and shield; he has the skill to pull or turn his blows.  But he refrains from saying this, lest it sound like boasting.

     "I'll bet.  Haven't forgotten that shieldwork you had on the Coast.  What rank were you in Greagoir's pack?"  Carver flips his sword once just to warm up his wrists, then nods for Cullen to come at him.

     "I had no rank, serrah.  In the Kinloch pack, omegas were..."  Cullen shrugs, unsure of how to say it.  One was either an omega like Irving, mated and bent toward the singular task of caring for the pack alpha, or a young one like Cullen, bent on proving himself a good representative of the pack, so as to earn a good arranged mating.

     "Oh, right, all proper."  Carver regards him, thoughtfully.  "Well, let's see what you can do, then."

     Cullen considers whether to open with a testing strike, which would be the polite thing to do.  Warm up gradually to proper sparring pace and strength, giving both of them plenty of time to learn each other.  But... on pure impulse, Cullen decides against this.  Instead he leads with a full-on rush, as he would if this were a true battle.  And it is delicious, delightful, to see Carver's eyes widen.  He does not retreat -- alphas rarely do; it is their nature, and it may be anticipated and used against them -- but he immediately shifts into a defensive stance as he must in order to manage the double-threat of Cullen's sword and shield.  When he throws Cullen back with a grunt, Cullen lets the momentum of it spin him into a turn, and he comes at Carver's side with the point of his blade.  Carver reacts, but he is slow, and only barely does he turn Cullen's sword aside.  Then he dances back, mouth open -- but that is pleasure in his eyes, Cullen notes.

     "Maker's _Eye_ ," he exclaims.  "Teach me to hold back, will you?  All right, then -- "  And the battle is engaged.

     It is beautiful.  Carver is still ginger of Cullen for another exchange or two, but then he relaxes once it becomes clear that Cullen can more than hold his own.  Then it becomes the best sort of sparring:  everything short of a real fight.  Cullen must take care; the wildness of Carver's style masks real strategy, and fearsome reach.  He particularly tests Cullen's shield, forcing Cullen to shunt him off strategically.  Also, the sheer power of the two-hander means Cullen cannot just absorb the blows, or he'll lose all feeling in his left arm.  It gradually becomes clear that Carver is trying to work on his ability to get past a shield defense -- possibly because his brother uses a shield -- so Cullen obliges him with shield-bashes and blind-side rushes, and by taking shameless advantage of the openings this creates.  Carver's quick enough to keep Cullen from tagging him, but it's a near thing.

     Still, something is off.  Carver's anger lingers throughout the match rather than disippating, which is what creates half his openings; he's being reckless.  And as the sun rises and the yard warms and the match goes on, Cullen finds himself irritated by Carver's distraction.  So when Carver overreaches for the third time, Cullen decides to teach him a lesson for it.  He dodges the blow rather than taking it on his shield, comes in under the slash, and spirals his own sword around the two-hander, neatly snatching the thing out of Carver's hand entire.

     The two-hander clatters to the flagstones, and Carver stands there gape-mouthed.  "Maker's _Balls_."

     "It would not have happened had you kept your mind on _me_ ," Cullen snaps.  "Where have you been, this past half-hour?"

     Carver rocks back a little, then grins and puts his hands on his hips.  "So you do have teeth!  Well, sorry, m'lord.  Didn't mean to give you less than my best."  He bows.  It's mockery, but the apology still mollifies Cullen a little.  Then he winces and works his wrist.  "Let's call that the match, then.  You put me down _hard_ , there."

     Cullen nods and sets down his arms, walking a circle to start cooling down.  "It seemed necessary.  You're angry about something, and it made you predictable.  What troubles you so?"

     He asks the question without thinking -- because that was the role he took with Greagoir, during their matches.  Alphas need omegas as confidantes, and warriors tend to express themselves in the ring, so since Irving wasn't much of a fighter, Cullen found himself serving in the role rather often.  But he does not know this young Hawke, and it is improper for him to be so familiar.  If Carver takes offense, it will be Cullen's own fault for carelessness.

     But to his surprise, Carver sighs and moves to sit down on one of the benches that ring the practice area, his shoulders slumping even as he grabs a towel to mop off the sweat.  He tosses another to Cullen, so casually and comfortably that Cullen realizes the question hasn't bothered him at all.  "What is it always?  My sodding brother.  He brought Peaches up to the suite last night."

     Peaches, Cullen recalls, is one of the female omegas.  The farmgirl whom Zevran mentioned.  But if by "brought up," Carver means --  _Oh_.  "For... for mounting?"  He tries not to show his shock.  No one in this pack will understand it.

     And indeed, Carver looks annoyed.  "No, to braid her hair with flowers.  Yes, for _mounting_.  We share a suite, because Mother thinks it will somehow keep us from killing each other.  But it means that if either of us brings an omega or beta up, the other will _hear_ it.  And we were both doing all right about that, keeping it to the omega quarters and such, 'til lately.  Now he wants to go at it all bloody night, so I came down here since I wasn't going to get any sleep."

     Then Carver has been here all night?  That, at least, Cullen may look shocked by.  "Then it is no wonder you're angry," he concedes, and no wonder the anger has lingered.  But something else is clear, too.  "He... _marks territory_ with these omegas, then."

     "You think?"  But Carver's sarcasm has little heat.  He's tired, now that the anger is wearing off, and it shows.  "Rutting bastard, literally.  I think he's been leaving the curtains open or something.  Hates me so much he makes sure I hear every stroke."

     Yes.  Deprived of the chance to best his rival in the ring, the elder Hawke has moved the battle to a different arena.  Cullen wipes his face and neck, then gingerly moves to sit down beside Carver -- at the far end of the bench, with an appropriate amount of distance between them.  He puts the used towel down between them as an extra layer.  "He _is_ your elder," Cullen ventures, carefully.  "More experienced, which naturally is why your mother has honored him with a higher rank.  It would be... proper, for you to bend the neck to him."

     "Yeah, maybe," Carver concedes.  But then he grimaces.  "And I would, really, if he weren't such a _ballsack_."  It's unspeakably crude.  Cullen winces.  "He's always been like this, though, even if I do yield to him.  Talks like I'm still a child, acts like I'm useless.  And I'm sodding tired of it.  I'm just as strong as him in a fight, and my patrols have fewer casualties!  He can be on top without... without _disrespecting_ me.  But since he won't, then I won't show throat.  So he pulls shit like this.  Also:  using the omegas like that?  That's just gross."

     Yes, and it means that one of these men is fighting an escalating dominance battle, if only in his mind.  Cullen has read of packs being torn apart by such behavior.  It's unlikely to happen here, with a strong ruling alpha in place -- and perhaps both alpha brothers have the presence of mind to stop the feud before it interferes with the function of the pack.  But it is trouble brewing nevertheless.

     As Cullen ponders this, however, Carver blinks and stares at him oddly for a moment.  "Hey.  Uh... you know you don't need to use a suppressant anymore, right?  Nobody here will step over the line with you.  They do, Mother will gut them.  _I'll_ gut them.  Okay?"

     And Cullen flinches.  But Carver has shown him trust, so --  "It isn't a suppressant," Cullen says, finally.  He focuses on his hands, so that he will not fidget and can maintain some dignity.  "It is... I have no omega scent."

     "Wha -- "  Carver pauses.  "This is what Greagoir and Mother were talking about, then.  Something happened to y -- "  Abruptly he cuts off that sentence.  "You don't have to say.  Sorry."

     "No, I..."  Cullen takes a deep breath.  "Your mother has respected my privacy, but it must be said, eventually.  In the In -- the Witch rebellion at Kinloch a few years ago, I was captured.  Witches cannot bind an omega, but they put me to a desire demon nevertheless, in hopes of possessing me.  I was... tortured. For days... weeks."

     "Those _fuckers_."  At the periphery of Cullen's vision, he sees Carver's hands flex, extending claws for a moment, and then reverting back to fully human.  It is... a comforting reaction, somehow, to Cullen.  Greagoir and every other alpha Cullen has met has been pitying, overly kind, overly mindful of Cullen's "condition."  Carver Hawke's honest anger makes for a refreshing change.

     So Cullen tells the rest.  "Yes.  Well, it turns out that an omega cannot be possessed.  And when it became clear that Greagoir and his Wolves would soon rescue me, the creature... bit me."

     Carver flinches.  "It meant to turn you?  Can that work?"

     "No.  Only beasts can turn omegas.  But a demon's bite taints us, nevertheless."  It is hard to speak of this part.  Too intimate.  But he has come this far.  "I... no longer have a proper scent, as you noticed, and because of that, unless I use my abilities, Wolves tend to initially assume me human.  There are other changes.  Among other things, I have been rendered scent-blind as well, but alphas are generally easier to discern without scent."

     "Well, yeah.  We're always the noisy arses talking over everybody else in the room."  Carver sighs.  "But can't a Witch-healer...?"

     Cullen shakes his head.  In the first few days after his rescue, this had been his hope as well, even though he'd been loathe to rely on Witches for anything, ever again.  "The injury is to my omega nature -- something no Witch can ever grasp or understand.  If healing is even possible, it can only be done by an alpha.  But alphas... are not drawn to an omega who smells human.  Nor one who feels no corresponding attraction by scent."  He flushes, but it's the truth, and Carver needs to know.  All the alphas need to know, if they've been taught to expect a certain _receptivity_ from all of the omegas in this pack.  Cullen will not be one of the receivers.  "The demon's bite has disrupted my, ah, natural cycles.  I am unlikely to ever experience a heat, pseudo- or otherwise.  I am likely infertile as well, should a female alpha desire me.  And there is a distinct possibility that I am no longer capable of being bound or turned, at all.  The only way to find out is to try, but..."  He spreads his hands.  That he is unmated at his age is proof enough of his undesirability.  "Worst of all, there is a slim chance that any alpha who attempts to bind me will experience demonic corruption themselves.  So even the attempt is dangerous, and I cannot in good conscience permit an alpha to try."

     He gets it all out, and stops talking.  Even speaking the words has been an effort, and it feels as if the words have cut him on the way out.  Carver is still for a moment, staring at him and radiating horror, as he should.  It is a shame.  He's been reaching out to Cullen, and Cullen has liked him.  Now Carver will stop trying to get to know the new omega in the pack.

     "Maker's Breath, Cull.  That's shit."  Carver sighs.  "But I see now why Greagoir brought you here."

     "...You do?"

     "Well -- "  Carver gestures around at the whole Gallows.  "You've heard the stories, haven't you?  Half the omegas here have some issue that makes proper mating a problem.  You fit right in."

     Cullen frowns.  But it's true, he realizes in surprise.  In this pack, _it means nothing_ that he is thirty years old and has never been bound, because so many of the omegas here are broken in worse ways.  No one has looked at him with pity, here -- only the thoughtful consideration of a new packmate, paired with cautious welcome.

     Still, Cullen sighs.  "Perhaps," he says.  "But I had resigned myself to a lifetime of serving the Maker at Kinloch, without... distraction.  Greagoir did attempt to find an alpha for me, several times, but when they refused me -- I cannot blame them -- I would have been content to remain chaste.  He brought me here because..."  Cullen blushes.  But it is obvious.  With five alphas about, three of them in dutiful attendance on the omegas present, Greagoir hoped that Cullen would at least not be lonely.

     Instead, it's worse.  In a pack where omegas are neither expected to do their duty to the Maker nor provided any other clear path to fulfillment, Cullen feels more alone than ever.

     "Well, you're not _dead_ , Cull, for fuck's sake."  Carver gets to his feet, stretching with a bone-popping groan.  Cullen looks and admires the sleek muscled lines of him, then looks away and despises himself for his weakness.  "You want to serve the Maker, serve the Maker.  Plenty of work to be done, here.  But it's not like you've got to make a choice.  Serve the Maker, but enjoy your life, too.  Or what the fuck did the Maker save you from the demon _for_?"

     That is... not illogical.  As Cullen contemplates this, however, someone calls out to Carver from across the yard.  The sun has risen during their practice, and the Gallows is more awake:  in the distance Cullen can hear someone drilling the younger Wolves through a morning run.  Carver waves back to the beta who called him, then sighs.  "I'd best go," he says to Cullen, "but you're sodding amazing with a sword and board.  Want to patrol with my unit, next run?"

     "I -- "  Cullen is floored.  In Kinloch, he had to beg Greagoir to take him out for missions.  "Yes!"  But he feels the need to emphasize the problem.  "However, I cannot run at Wolf speed, have no night-sight, no ability to scent, as I mentioned..."

     "It's fine.  Most of the time we go humanshape down the Coast anyway.  Makes the bandits and such think we're easy to take."  He grins, and for just an instant his canines seem a little longer than they should be.  "Having an omega with us, one who can smite Dragons out of the bloody sky, will make up for it, trust me."  He claps Cullen on the shoulder; Cullen starts a little.  "It's Thrask's patrol today, but we muster tomorrow at dawn at the front gates.  Bring provisions, unless you want to fish for your dinner."  He grins at Cullen, grabs his towel, and heads off.

     Head spinning, Cullen gets up as well and then grimaces as he notices that he's gone stiff in just these few minutes of sitting.  He stretches carefully and resolves to go to the omegas' communal bath, which is kept hot all day for their use.  If he is to run with Wolves on the Coast tomorrow, he must be at his best.

     He's trying very hard not to gaze after Carver as Carver crosses the yard, because he has not gotten this far in life by allowing himself to covet things he cannot have.  Still, he notices when Carver stops just before reaching the beta who hailed him.  Carver has lifted his towel to swab off, but then he pauses, frowning.  Cullen, bent to stretch out one of his hamstrings, realizes belatedly that he must have used Carver's towel to mop his own neck.  It is nothing, but Cullen will be sure to apologize to him when he can; alpha Wolves greatly dislike having others' scents on their belongings.

     But Carver hesitates, then lifts the towel to his face again.  Presses it to his nose.  Shuts his eyes, taking a deep drag of Cullen's scent -- or rather, of the nothing-scent that is there.  Cullen's scent these days is just sweat and dirt, with none of the crucial pheromones that signal an omega's health or readiness for mating.  Those pheromones are as key to the attraction between an alpha and omega as looks and personality, especially for Wolves, the most scent-sensitive of the Beastkin.  Cullen looks away again, unwilling to watch the familiar look of disinterest -- or disgust -- cross the face of an alpha who has treated him with grace and respect so far.  It will not be Carver's fault.  It's just how things are.

     But he hears the beta waiting on Carver complain.  "Come _on_ , Carv, will you?  You know your mother will be pissed if you keep her waiting!"

     "Right, right," Carver murmurs, breathing in the towel again. 

     "Carv!"

     Carver curses and turns away, then trots to catch up with the other man.  "I _said_ I was coming, you waste, don't get your shorts in a cockring."

     He does not look back.  He does not discard the towel either, though, when they pass a bin for used cloth at the exit to the practice yard.  In fact, Cullen sees Carver glance at the bin, hesitate, then tuck the towel into the breastplate of his armor.

     That is... peculiar.  Or rather, it is typical behavior for an alpha who's found the scent of an unbonded omega intriguing, but there's no reason for _this_ alpha to do so.  Not in Cullen's case.

     Cullen resumes his stretches, but his mind remains unsettled for the rest of the morning.

#

     The library of the Gallows is impressively vast.  Cullen stops within its vaulted foyer, looking around at marble colonnades and dark wood bannisters in appreciation.  This one is the non-magical library -- though it is full of Witches nevertheless; they tend toward general scholarliness in more than just the arcane disciplines.  They staff it as well as use it, and one young Witch happily directs him to the map room when he asks.

     Cullen reflexively resists the urge to feel uncomfortable in any Witch's presence.  Intellectually, he understands that blood Witches are of a different ilk to the rest of their kind.  Even Witches shun them -- for at Kinloch, when the demons went wild, they killed Wolf, human, and Witch alike.  Still, there is a great difference between what his mind knows and what his heart feels, and he is uneasy the whole while he's in the place.

     Which is why he starts badly when he's been in the map room for a while, and then someone right behind him says, "Oh, you're the new one."

     When he has whirled and put a hand on the hilt of his sword, he sees that his assailant is only a tall, heavybuilt man, in the casual clothes of a manor lord:  a handsome dark red tunic of fine silk and well-made trousers, with some sort of emblem on the lapel.  He is dark-haired, pale of skin, with rather startling honey-brown eyes, and a countenance that would be forbidding if his eyebrows were not politely raised.  Familiar, somehow.  He eyes Cullen's sword-hand, and Cullen flushes and straightens from his defensive crouch.

     "Your pardon, serrah," Cullen says, embarrassed.

     "Little hair-triggered, are we?"  The man moves toward the other side of the wide table -- and in the process, Cullen sees the emblem from his lapel, embroidered in a larger size across his back:  a stylized hawk.  Emblem of the pack's alpha family.  And this is Garrett Hawke, whom Cullen last saw in the sparring ring trying to goad his younger brother into a match.

     He inhales a little.  It's quiet, but a Wolf's hearing is superb, and Garrett eyes him with a hint of amusement.  "We haven't been introduced, but I see that you know me.  What was it that gave me away, my dashing good looks?"

     Yes, he looks almost exactly like Leandra Hawke's Witch mate, Malcolm.  Carver has inherited less of the man, more readily blended with his mother's lean face and stubborn jaw.  Cullen moves back to the map table, bracing his hands on its edge.  "Er, the hawk on your tunic."

     "Oh, well, that's cheating."  Garrett smirks.  It's friendly, wry, and makes Cullen relax.  This Hawke is far more charming than his brusque younger brother.  "So, I'm here to eye a map to Sundermount that I saw when I was in here a few nights ago.  You, though?"

     Cullen inclines his head toward the map of the Coast.  "In light of how easily my party was ambushed during our journey here, it seemed apropos."  He hesitates, then adds, "Your brother has asked me to accompany his troop on tomorrow's patrol."

     Hawke's expression, which is perpetually amused, doesn't change.  "Always has had an eye for good personnel, Carver.  Snatches the best right out from under me!  Though I imagine he's also imitating Thrask, who takes Omega Keran out with him all the time."

     It is an almost dizzying spin, from praising Cullen and _appearing_ to praise Carver, before insulting him.  Cullen inclines his head to acknowledge the compliment, and resists the urge to defend Carver.  Never wise to get between rival alphas.  "Perhaps it's a good idea for all the patrols to bring an omega, given the Dragon threat."

     " _And_ bloody Wyverns, lately."  Hawke sighs, leaning over the map and looking annoyed.  "Orlesians among the bandits.  It's not a bad idea, but I'm not certain there are enough of you among the omegas who are able and willing to stand full combat duty.  Even Maurevar can't run well in human form anymore, with that bad leg of his.  That's how we manage his co-captaincy; he does the paperwork, I do all the stabbing."  He smiles.  Then he examines Cullen thoughtfully.  "So it's true what they say.  You have no scent, and you can't smell a thing yourself."

     Cullen stiffens before he can stop himself.  Then he focuses on the map.  "Your Lady mother briefed you on my history?"

     "No, actually, she's left that for you to share, if you like.  And I don't mean to pry.  But a Wolfpack is worse than a weaving-circle when it comes to some things."  He chuckles.  "And if you had any sort of scent acuity, you wouldn't be leaning on that side of the table."  He rubs his nose.  "Zevran has a thing for getting himself mounted in public places, and this map room was the last one we used."

     _A few nights ago_ , he said.  Cullen grimaces and removes his hands from the table, while Garrett chuckles with a credible imitation of embarrassment.  "We _did_ clean up!  But the scent is still, ah, noticeable -- to me, at least.  Sorry."

     Maker's Breath.  Cullen sighs and mutters, "Thank you for informing me."  Then he bends over the map to study the area where they were ambushed, because it is more pleasant to think about getting attacked by rogue Dragons than it is to think of mounting and mating.  Hawke, thankfully, falls into his own study, which allows Cullen to concentrate and lose himself in the map.  Small wonder the Dragons picked the area that they did for ambush; it overlooks a common trade-trail.  But it looks as if there is a backtrail -- twisty, and a little dangerous in that it overlooks a steep drop.  But if Carver's Wolves can traverse it, they might in turn surprise the Dragons in their camp.  Pleased, Cullen takes the sheet of paper that he begged from the librarian and begins sketching that part of the map, with annotations for his plan.

     Hawke finishes whatever he's doing before Cullen does, and he rolls his map and makes to leave.  But he pauses, watching what Cullen's doing in apparent fascination.  "Maker.  You really mean to rid the Coast of them."

     "Absolutely, serrah alpha."

     At this, Hawke's eyebrows rise.  "Well, that's a bit overly formal.  The betas were gossipping about that, too.  'We've got a proper omega at last!  Such fine manners!'"  He mocks a stranger's voice, then shakes his head, chuckling.  "But I just confessed a tryst to you, so I think we might be past that degree of formality, might not we be?"

     Cullen does not know what to make of this man.  But he shrugs, awkwardly.  "As you like, serr -- ah, Alpha-Captain."

     "Try 'Garrett.'  Come on.  I know you can do it."

     Maker, no one in this pack has respect for rank or social distance.  Cullen turns to face him and inclines his head, to convey the respect with his body language that Hawke seems not to want verbally.  "Garrett, then, if it pleases you."

     "Much better."  Hawke grins with such pleasure that Cullen smiles a little too.  "I suppose Carver must be, hmm, _positioning himself_ for you.  But, you know, the lack of scent isn't nearly as odd as I thought it would be, now that I've had a bit to soak you in.  You certainly don't smell _bad_.  And there are obvious compensations for the lack.  Rather fit, aren't you."  He sends an appreciative gaze down Cullen's body, before Cullen even processes that the conversation has careened into carnal territory.  He starts, and Hawke smiles with just the corner of his mouth.  It isn't a leer; it's too friendly and casual for that.  "Just keep in mind that you have options."

     Then he winks, and heads out.  And Cullen is left alone, and stunned, with the fact that _two_ alphas have shown some sort of interest in him in the past few hours, when he expected to elicit no such interest ever again for the rest of his life.

     This pack is so ridiculously mad.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual violence and implication of past sexual violence in this one, warning.

     _You dreaming, then?  All right._

     It is a soft voice -- a bedroom voice, as Cullen's private stash of romance serials would insist.  Low, rich, tender.  Male.  Commanding.  An alpha voice.

     In the warm darkness of his dream, he feels hands on his bare skin.  They are callused, strong hands, and they go everywhere.  He would blush, but he is too busy gasping and writhing beneath their caress.  _Yeah_ , whispers the voice, more in his mind than aloud.  _A fine, lovely omega.  Strong, but soft._   One of the hands wanders down and finds Cullen's cock to stroke.  Cullen is helplessly hard down below, and he groans as the voice chuckles.  **_Mostly_** _soft.  You want something from me, beautiful?_

     "Please," Cullen tries to say.  He can't speak, though; the dark swallows it.  "Please, I need --  I have wanted -- " But he cannot bring himself to say _Please just touch me, I have not been touched in so long, touch me and taste me and **take** me, like I have wanted all my life, please, O Maker_.  Why is it so hard to speak?  Why be ashamed of his own wantonness?  Prebonding mounting is wrong, but surely now that Cullen has found a worthy alpha -- he would not have allowed matters to get this far with anyone but his chosen love -- he may at last indulge his more carnal inclinations.  The Maker smiles upon a fruitful mating, and his body aches for completion.  "Please!"

     _Yeah, time to make you mine._   An arm goes around him from behind, pulling him back against a muscled torso.  Something hard and hot presses against his cleft; he shudders all over and grabs for his alpha's hip to encourage.  The omega serials have all said that it will hurt the first time, but he wants this.  He is _made_ for this.  Hungrily he turns his head aside to bare his neck, and trembles with anticipation.

     _So eager to be mine_.  The voice has changed.  Now it is sibilant, differently-pitched... and Cullen's eyes fly open as a chill moves through him.  Why is the body pressing against his so cold?  Like dead flesh.  And the hand holding his chest, pinning him for the bite, why has his alpha extended his claws?  He turns back in confusion -- and freezes in horror.

     The face that looms over him is not his alpha.  Is not human.  Its cold eyes glimmer beneath a crown of horns.  When it smiles, he sees that its fangs are cracked and purple with corruption.  Then it opens its mouth for the bite, and Cullen begins to scream.

     _If I can't have you, my pretty one, no one else will_.

#

     With a violent start and a cry, Cullen comes awake and scrambles out of bed.  He barks his shin on a divan, still unfamiliar with the room, but ignores it.  In the bathroom, there is a candle still burning.  He catches it up with a shaking hand and yanks aside the neck of his nightshirt to stare at his shoulder.

     The marks there are old and faint, healed -- but still visible, raised a little above the rest of his skin.  Still the color of old bruises.  Normally they are quiescent, but now, in the wake of the dream, they burn as if the wounds were fresh.

     Just a dream, like a thousand others he has had since the Incident.  The demon is dead, but its malice lingers in Cullen's flesh, and because of this he will never be free.  Setting the candle down, Cullen covers his eyes with one hand and sags to the floor.  He cannot even bring himself to weep.

#

     The next morning, Cullen arrives early for morning muster.  Carver's there already with several of his betas, helping them check injury kits and canteens that they're apparently bringing along.  Cullen nods to the betas, several of whom he recognizes from that fateful day of the Dragon attack.  They look pleased to see him, and he hears these ones whisper to the ones who don't know him, of how useful it was to have an omega in the troop on the Coast.  Cullen cautiously allows himself to feel comforted by this.

     Carver's in the middle of a conversation with one of his men when someone murmurs to him about Cullen, and he turns.  There is an instant of oddness in his expression that Cullen cannot define, and then it is replaced by a mask of such blankness that it is immediately clear something is wrong.  But then Hawke says, with more brusqueness than usual, "Omega Cullen, glad you could join us.  What's this?"

     Because Cullen has his hand-sketched map out.  He hesitates a little, still thrown by the sudden awkwardness between them, but then chides himself for letting trivialities get in the way of the mission.  "A possible means of surprising the Dragons, Alpha-Lieutenant, if you will consider."

     The oddness vanishes as Carver raises his eyebrows and takes the map.  He studies it for a moment, and then his eyes widen.  "Maker's Breath.  This turnoff here -- I've seen it before, but it looked too precarious and I figured it for a dead end; never followed it up.  But if you're right that it widens out past the turning..."

     "The map was old, serrah.  It is certainly possible that the trail is no longer there.  But if it is..."

     "We can stab those fuckers right in the kidneys before they even know we're there!"  Carver grins at him, eyes flashing red briefly with alpha aggression.  "Nice to finally have a clever one aboard."  While Cullen straightens with the praise, and with pleasure at the realization that an alpha actually means to _listen_ to him for once, Carver turns to his troop, who have formed a rough line in front of the gate.  "All right, you lot.  We've got some Dragon throats to tear out today; listen up if you want to live through it."

     After the briefing they set forth, into the misty hills of the Wounded Coast.  They see no trouble along the way to the turnoff, though at one point they pass the leavings of a hastily abandoned bandit camp, which must have seen them coming and booked for the caves up-trail.  "Must not have had any Orlesians with them," one of the betas scoffs, for which Cullen is very glad.  He has never met a Wyvern beastkin, and does not want to.

     "Later for them," Carver says, baring his teeth briefly before leading them on.

     At the turnoff that Cullen has found, Carver sends the most nimble of his men -- actually a very young she-Wolf -- ahead to scout.  She returns breathless and grinning.  "It's there, just like serrah omega said," she blurts, nodding at Cullen.  "It's narrow; we'll have to go single file.  But it's scraggly with brush and there's not a lick of recent scent, Dragon or other.  If they know the trail is there, they aren't patrolling it."

     "And we know from past tangles that they haven't got any High Dragons to do aerial recon," Carver murmurs.  Then he grins, and all his Wolves growl in bloodlust at the look on his face.  "Let's go fucking kill them, then."

     Cullen feels it too, and grins.  It is time to avenge the fallen betas of Greagoir's pack.

     The trail is indeed narrow, and Cullen must take care not to look down lest he panic himself.  But then the trail broadens out into a kind of shelf, where a thicket of wiry brush has taken root.  The Wolves can smell the rogue Dragons now, their noses all wrinkling with the unpleasantness of it; for once, Cullen is glad of his impairment.  Carver himself dispatches the lone, yawning Dragon on watch, creeping up on him from behind and stabbing him through the neck before he can shift.  Cullen doesn't even need to quell the Dragon.  Then the troop slips into the tunnel mouth that leads into the Dragons' lair.  There are other watchmen along the route, but not a single one gets off an alarm before Carver's Wolves have silenced him.

     But here, everything goes wrong.

     When the tunnel opens out into the cavern where the Dragons have obviously been nesting for some time -- they've even built a series of small cabins within the cavern, and hearths for cooking, and tanning racks and such -- the troop has just enough time to spread out and cover all entrances before one of the Dragons sniffs the air, frowns, and spies them.  He cannot shift because Cullen quells him at once, and the Dragon stumbles with shock at finding himself still in humanshape.  But he shouts something in his language that clearly is both an alarm and a warning that an omega is present, because all of the Dragons they can see grab spears and other weapons to fight, rather than relying on their beast teeth and claws.

     Carver's Wolves have no such impediment, however, and they flow through the cavern like deadly shadows, catching and pulling down many of the Dragons before they can get their spears up.  Cullen runs with them, keeping to the middle of the group so that he can extend his powers for maximum effect.  But then he flinches as a prickle of warning moves under his skin.  Magic!  But before he can figure out where it's coming from, an explosion throws three of Carver's Wolves across the cavern.

     Carver shifts back to human, right beside Cullen.  "Fuck!  Saarebaas!  Spread out, anti-magic formation -- "  The Wolves do so immediately, so that the saarebaas can't take out many of them at once.  But even as they do so, a Dragon comes forth from one of the buildings who is better armored than the rest, swinging a sword with deadly effectiveness.  He calls out to the other Dragons, who immediately move to obey his orders.  It's a sten -- a Dragon alpha.  They must take him down.

     Carver sees it too, his eyes flaring red at the sight of a rival.  "Cullen," he snarls, his voice half growl.  "Take Bleeker, Grenwich, and Reade, and go kill that fucking saarebas for me."

     Cullen starts.  Carver is _giving him command_?  "Alpha?  You..."  He can't even think of what to say.  _"Me?"_

     "Did I stutter?  Now!"  Then Carver has unslung his sword, having apparently decided to meet the Dragon alpha humanshape to humanshape, and he charges forward to fight.

     There is no time for doubt.  Cullen nods to the three Wolves who stand ready at Carver's command.  He can sense the saarebaas' magic coming from a platform near the back of the cavern.  He sends Bleeker to skirt the long way around the cavern's edges to climb up the platform on that side, and then he and the other three Wolves push for the nearer ladder, which is being guarded by three Dragons.  Cullen slaps them with his magic -- an omega's Smite can stun even non-magical beasts -- and his Wolves take them down in a flurry of snarls and teeth and blood.

     Then they are on the platform, and the saarebas flings fire and lightning at them before Cullen can quell it.  No one has quite fathomed the mystery of Dragon saarebas.  They are something of Witches, and something of beastkin -- a fusion so unholy that even the Dragons fear them, and keep them in chains accordingly.  Though Cullen's heard they do the same to their omegas, horrifically.

     But Cullen has bared his teeth in unconscious imitation of his packmates; he _will not falter_.  After he has crouched to shield himself from the magic, he rises and sends a Smite back that staggers the creature.  He charges before the saarebas can recover, shield-bashing it to disrupt the next brewing spell -- and distracting it so that Grenwich and Reade can attack its flanks.  One of them takes out the saarebas' hamstring.  Reade goes for the creature's throat, but is stymied by the heavy metal mask; Cullen lunges for its heart, but misses his strike and his sword glances harmlessly off its chest-chains.  But then Bleeker arrives in humanshape, and stabs the thing from behind.  While it howls, Cullen snatches off its mask.  The Wolves tear its throat out in seconds.

     In nearly the same instant, Cullen hears an alpha-Wolf howl of triumph:  it is Carver, also victorious.  The troop howls back; Cullen grins, breathless with the delight of it all.  This is what he was made for -- to serve the Maker with blade and blood!  It is the first time since the Incident that he has felt such joy.

     Amid the cheers of the troop, Cullen comes down off the platform to find the sten headless and Carver standing over the body.  He is panting hard, not only with exertion but animus; his eyes are so red that they glow like lanterns in the cavern, and he trembles with whatever he has absorbed from the sten by killing him.  The Dragons have no omega, which means the sten would have had to take on the animus of the whole pack of rogues -- and these Dragons have been raiding and murdering all along the Coast for months.  Maker.  Cullen hurries to Carver, already extending his hands; he can remove animus slowly from a distance, but to cleanse this much he will need to touch the man.

     Carver turns those red, red eyes on Cullen -- and then he blurs.  And Cullen grunts as Carver's body slams into his.  He blinks away stars to find himself pinned to the cavern floor, with Carver snarling on top of him, teeth bare inches from Cullen's throat.  He isn't in Wolf shape, but there is nothing human in his eyes nevertheless.  The animus has driven him feral.

     Carver's betas bark or shout in alarm, but Cullen raises his voice at once:  "Be silent!"  They hush, which is fortunate; any additional agitation might set him off, in this state.  Privately Cullen curses himself for his own folly.  Alphas rarely attack omegas, but Cullen no longer smells like an omega.  He's lucky that Carver hasn't torn out his throat already.  "Hawke," he says.  He has read of alphas going into this state.  The texts all say that it's crucial to reconnect the alpha to his human mind as quickly as possible, lest the feral state become permanent.  Carver has his arms pinned down, but contact is enough for Cullen to begin drawing out some of the madness.  He cannot do it quickly without his hands, but...  "Hawke, you are Hawke.  _Carver_.  Do you not remember yourself?"

     Carver growls sharply, with no hint of understanding.  His canines are an inch long and the bones of his face stand out sharply beneath his skin; he is in the half-state, on the brink of a shift, and if he does, he might never take humanshape again.  Plus he'll kill Cullen.  But there's so bloody _much_ of the animus.  The sten must have been half mad with it himself.  It will be a minute, at least, before Cullen puts a dent in it.  Words have done nothing.  What can he do?  He swallows hard -- then shivers as instinct prompts a new course.  It is improper given that they are not betrothed, and Carver does not mean to claim him, but... damn propriety.  This is an emergency.

     So, slowly, Cullen sits up to nuzzle him, nose to nose.  It is a thing only omegas do; Carver starts a little at the gesture, blinking.  Still growling, though.  So Cullen turns his head to bare the side of his neck, just above the gorget of his armor.

     Carver's growl changes at once, softening from an angry warning into a gentler rumble.  He blinks, then lowers his face to inhale just beneath Cullen's ear.  If nothing else, Cullen should smell like pack, after days in the Gallows.  It works; Cullen is relieved when Carver's growl softens further, into a kind of low croon.  His breath tickles the hairs on Cullen's skin. 

     It feels... oh.  It should not feel as good as it does.  Like a caress.

     But Carver is not done sniffing at him.  Cullen braces himself for a snort of disinterest, or revulsion, but this does not come.  Instead, very gently, his lips pull at Cullen's earlobe.

     Cullen gasps, his whole body going hot and tight in a way that he has not felt since before the Incident.  How can that be?  He thought this part of him was dead, broken by the demon.  But it _is_ an omega's nature to crave submission, and... and it must be admitted that Carver is everything Cullen has ever wanted in an alpha.  Cullen cannot smell him, but the body pinning his down is heavy with muscle, and Cullen has seen its skill and strength.  And Carver is kind and considerate of his men and a good commander and an excellent warrior --

     -- and as the curves of his canines graze Cullen's neck, even though Cullen knows it cannot be, he suddenly _aches_ for the completion of the bite --

     -- but then Carver stiffens.  "F-fuck," he murmurs against Cullen's neck.  It is guttural and vulgar but very much human.  Cullen gasps in mingled frustration and relief that Carver's mind is returning.  Cullen has drawn enough of the madness from him.  But blessed Maker, Carver is _right there_.  It does not matter that the troop is watching, that they lie nearly upon the corpses of their enemies.  Carver's lips are on his skin and it is the single most erotic thing Cullen has ever known in his _life_.

     " _Fuck_ ," Carver says again, more harshly.  He's shaking now, trying to pull away even as he is bombarded by the same instinct that consumes Cullen.  It is an alpha's nature to seek an omega, and claim him, and then mount him.  And the way Carver presses against him -- impossible to be certain with armor codpieces in the way, but Cullen is fairly certain that the desire for all three runs rampant in Carver right now.  He has found Cullen, an available omega.  The bite will make Cullen his.  And then --

     _But no, no, this cannot **be** , no alpha has reacted to me since the demon --_

     "Cull," Carver grates.  His breath is soft, his growl now an enticing croon.  He does not seem to be able to help it.  "T-tell me you don't want me.  I need you to, nnh, tell me to get off you.  Okay?"  He swallows.  "Please.  B-because right now you," another swallow, and then his voice pitches higher with urgency, "you smell like you _want_ me, and I can't think of anything but having you right here on this sodding floor."

     Cullen is so confused that he blurts, "But I have no omega scent.  How..."

     The shaking has become a violent twitch.  "I don't fucking know, but Cull, Cull, Maker, I'm going to _bite_ you if you don't -- "

     "Oh, ah," Cullen stammers.  He has to swallow and concentrate to speak at all, because everything of him except his mouth wants to say otherwise.  And he cannot lie, because Wolves can hear the small biological tells of falsehood, which means he cannot say that he does not want Carver.  In this moment, he wants _abominably_.  But he forces himself to remember the demon, and the danger of corruption.  "Don't.  Y-you mustn't.  I would not put you at risk, Carver."  That is truth, and the fear of it must fire his scent, because Carver stops crooning and goes still.  "Please, don't."

     The words are enough.  Carver groans softly, but then he pushes himself up and lifts his face to draw in a deep breath away from Cullen's skin, his eyes drifting shut.  When they open, they are blue instead of red, and weary.

     "Fucking Void," he murmurs.  But he gets up and backs off of Cullen, extending a hand to help Cullen up.  "Never been that deep into the red before.  Mother warned me what it could be like, but..."

     Cullen gets to his feet and brushes himself off.  The betas watch him with wide, relieved eyes.  Alphas who have gone feral have been known to slaughter their packmates.  Cullen does not think Carver is the sort; feral alphas just become worse versions of what they already are, and he is no bully.  Still.

     Carver knows it too.  He rubs a hand over his face, and sighs.  "Shit.  Sorry, Cullen.  And thank you."

     "It is only my duty," Cullen demurrs.

     "My furry arse.  That's above and beyond if anything."  He looks up at Cullen bleakly.  "Never wanted to bite the shit out of an omega like that, either, and Maker knows I've had them plenty of times.  So many omegas about, alphas don't feel the claiming thing.  But with you... thought it was another dream.  Almost lost it."

     _Another dream_?  Cullen stares at him, suddenly understanding why Hawke was so awkward with him that morning.  If he has been dreaming of Cullen, in a prurient fashion --

     But that makes no _sense_.  "Perhaps because I am new to the pack," Cullen ventures uneasily.  It is reaching.  Carver nods, but Cullen can tell he doesn't believe it, either.

     Still, Carver is leader enough to focus on the moment.  "Yeah, you lot," he says, turning to his men, and when he grins wearily, they exhale or laugh or if in Wolf form, roll over and wag their tails.  "We killed the shit out of these interlopers in our territory.  As Wolves sodding should!"  His eyes flash red, but it's safe now; Cullen has made him so.  He's just feeling his victory, and his men growl with it too.  "Search the bodies for valuables and stab any survivors, and then let's go home."

#

     When they get back to the Gallows, there's actually a celebration that night.  The Dragons have been a threat choking off trade for months, and half the merchants in the city have come to fete the Wolves.  The practice rings are full of torchlight, Witches or musicians making entertainment -- swirling colored lights from the Witches, music from the musicians -- and occasional spots of dance.  Someone's set out kegs.  Even Lady Hawke has come down to watch:  she sits on a couch that someone has set out for her, smiling as she rests in the big arms of her Witch mate, watching her pack have fun.

     Carver is the hero of the hour, and Cullen watches him run from circle to circle, drinking here, dancing there, somewhere along the way ending up shirtless again.  His betas catch him up and carry him around on their shoulders at one point, while he yelps and token-struggles to get free, but everyone can tell that he loves it.

     "Beautiful, isn't he?"  It's Zevran, who's drunk.  He and the other omegas have a kind of nest here amid the celebration:  a massive pile of couches and cushions, arranged at the best point to display them as visible symbols of the pack's wealth.  Cullen, having finally been coaxed out of armor by the other omegas, wears an elegant robe they've given him.  It's made of silk and brocade, is built to show off his chest (much to his blushing dismay), and is perhaps the finest article of clothing he's ever worn.  Apart from this concession to celebration, however, he remains with the other omegas as is proper -- though half of them are out there cavorting too, and no one seems to censure them for such licentiousness.  This ridiculous pack.

     But Zevran has caught him looking, and Cullen blushes as he turns his gaze away from Carver.  Zevran grins, though, sitting up.  "Well, we know which alpha _you'll_ be taking up with, when your next pseudo-heat comes."

     Cullen flushes, his good mood disippating.  He has not had a pseudo-heat since before the demon, and he spent that one with his hand.  His body is no longer capable of such normalcy -- but none of his new fellow packmates need to know any of this.  "A gentleman does not discuss such things," he says, and sips some of the tea a beta has brought him.

     Zevran laughs, though his gaze is oddly intent, as if he has somehow seen through Cullen's attempt to deflect.  He says nothing, though, and Donnic, an older omega who grew up among humans, sits forward.  Cullen has heard that Donnic spent a while in the City Guard pack -- a client-pack to the Lady Hawke's, mixed Wolves and humans with a wastrel of an alpha -- before a persistent rogue alpha drove him to the Gallows for asylum.  Donnic takes Cullen's tea before he can protest, and shoves a mug of beer at him instead.  "Leave off, new blood," he says to Cullen.  "No one cares if you have fun -- not here.  Proper packs might expect omegas to sit about looking pretty and never indulging, but here you can get drunk and make a right mess of yourself.  Everybody else is, after all.  Only fair.  And if you want, stop _looking_ at baby Hawke there and go hook him into a nice corner somewhere.  I'm sure he'd oblige you, from what the betas say about how he was all over you in the Dragon cavern."  He laughs.

     Cullen blushes deeply.  "I could never," he says, and hopes the others will leave it at this.

     No such luck.  Zevran favors him with a skeptical look.  "Why can't you?  He might've been tempted to bite you while he was halfway to feral, but that was just the situation -- and he's fine now.  Nothing to be afraid of."

     _But I was not afraid_ , Cullen thinks, realizing it is true.  _I wanted him to bite me_.

     Dearest Maker.  He thought he'd rid himself of wanting the impossible.

     "Or go have his brother, or Aveline," Donnic continues, with a shrug.  "Maker, she's _fun_.  Or have a beta, for that matter.  You're half the reason for this victory, lad, even though the alphas always take credit.  But the pack knows.  You should do something for yourself for a change."

     Cullen starts.  This thought -- _do something for yourself_ \-- is... alien.  It feels scandalous, too.  Omegas are expected to think beyond themselves; their duty is to alpha and pack.

     _But I cannot have an alpha._

This sobers him into melancholy.  "I... cannot," he says again.  It is soft this time.  Zevran and Donnic look at each other, plainly hearing what Cullen will not say.  He braces himself for their ridicule.  But Zevran touches his shoulder in silent sympathy.  And Donnic sighs and pushes the mug at him again.

     "Then you _need_ a drink, you fool," he says.  "If you're this low in the middle of a celebration, then you might as well drown your sorrows.  Proper omegas get to be _sad_ , at least, for the Maker's sake."

     It is true.  And though it is still improper... Cullen sighs and takes the mug.

     The drink is ale and something else, and it goes straight to his head.  Unsurprising given that it's made for Wolves, whose magical metabolism shrugs off weaker spirits, but when Cullen starts seeing double, he knows he's had enough.  He nods farewell to the other omegas and stumbles toward the main tower, concentrating primarily on putting one foot in front of the other.  He does not see Carver pause in the middle of the jig contest he's dancing against Aveline -- which she's winning handily because he's too drunk for rhythm -- and stare after Cullen, while the betas who've bet on him howl and laugh in dismay at the forfeit.

     The omega level is dark and quiet when Cullen reaches it, which suits Cullen fine.  In the common room, he stares out the wide expanse of windows and tries not to feel the melancholy that the drink has only pushed back within him, but it comes rushing to the fore anyway.  The bowl of Kirkwall's harbor spreads beyond the Gallows' island.  It is a whole city kept peaceful and prosperous by the strength of its Wolf pack.  A proud legacy -- and Maker, how he wishes that he could be part of it.  For that moment in the Dragons' cavern, triumphant over the saarebaas and seeing his fellow Wolves victorious, Cullen _was_ part of it, and already this has become one of his sweetest memories.  But is that all he is to have?  He has been trained to diplomacy and tactics and more -- trained to _leadership_.  Any Wolf can fight... and he isn't even a Wolf.

     All at once the loneliness overwhelms him, and he covers his face, leaning on the windowsill and trying very hard not to weep.  But the drink makes the truth undeniable.  This _is_ all he will ever have:  nothing but hollow warriors' victories, and longings that will never be fulfilled, and teases of something, of some _one_ he wants but can never have --

     A step behind him makes him jerk upright in surprise and alarm.  He thought he was alone.  But there reflected in the glass behind him is a man in worn Wolf armor, watching him intently.  Cullen has never seen him before:  pale of skin, middle-aged, muttonchops, a sardonic smile.

     "Huh," he says.  "Thought I'd find an omega or two up here, but there's only you."

     It is salt when Cullen is already raw and wounded.  He turns to face the man, angry now.  "Yes, _only me_ ," he snaps, not even trying to be polite.  "May I help you, or would you do me the kindness of leaving me to my drunkenness in peace?"

     The man raises eyebrows as if something Cullen has said surprises him.  It seems to amuse him.  "You're new," he says, taking another step into the room.  Then he lifts his head, nostrils twitching visibly.  "Hmh.  And you smell so much of _Carver Hawke_ that you must be one of his.  Didn't know he was into humans, though.  Figures."

     It is the venom with which this man says Carver's name that penetrates Cullen's misery.  That is real hate, not just the usual resentment that betas sometimes feel toward alphas.  Cullen frowns as the small hairs on the back of his neck prickle.  But the man has given insult, which must be answered.  "I do not know you, serrah, but I see no call for you to speak to me in such a fashion."

     The man raises both eyebrows, then laughs.  "What a _prissy_ thing you are."  He steps closer, then tilts his head in puzzlement.  "You're dressed like an omega, and you act like one, but your scent is wrong.  How odd."

     And then one of the bookcases moves aside.  Cullen starts -- but omega quarters often have panic rooms and such in hidden places; he should've thought to ask Zevran where the ones here were.  He's doubly surprised to see that it is Alain who steps forth, in sleepclothes.  Alain is tense, shoulders back, expression bitter and resigned -- but he's trembling, too, Cullen sees.  He says, "Leave him alone, Karras.  We both know who you're really here for."

     _Karras_.  Cullen inhales, shocked sober.  The exiled alpha!  And in token of this, Karras immediately ignores Cullen at the sight of his omega.  He moves toward Alain -- who backs away, but Karras is on him in an instant, pinning him to the bookcase and grabbing his hair and pulling his head aside so that he can take a long, deep drag of scent from Alain's throat.  It is the look on Alain's face that yanks Cullen out of his frozen shock.  Alain has shut his eyes in submission to his alpha, but his face is a study in misery.  And belatedly Cullen realizes Alain was _hiding_ , actually sleeping in the panic room -- and that he has come out, and given himself to Karras, to save Cullen.

     Which is _completely_ unacceptable.

     Cullen is unarmed and unarmored, but he bares his teeth and grabs a poker from the nearby fireplace, brandishing it like a two-hander.  "Let him _go_ , traitor, or by the Maker I shall end you."

     Alain's eyes fly open in shock.  Karras turns from Alain's throat to stare at him, disbelief stark on his face.  In the same moment, however, they all hear a fist banging on the heavy metal door that shields the omega quarters from the rest of the Gallows.  It is Carver's voice that comes through:  "Cull?  Why are you upset?  What's going on?"

     Karras drops Alain and turns on Cullen with a snarl.  "Speak a word, and I'll -- "

     "Hawke!" Cullen shouts it and begins circling toward the door.  He has to unlock it.  An alpha has the strength to batter it down, but it will take time, and Cullen cannot take the chance that Karras will harm Alain or escape.  "It's Karras, he's here -- "

     Karras snarls and lunges at him, shifting.  Cullen is ready for this, however, throwing the hardest Smite that he can in retaliation.  It catches Karras in mid-shift and flings him back; he lands on the floor on hands and toes, shaking his head to clear it.  Cullen uses the moment to run for the metal door, but the lock is complex.  In the instant that he puzzles over how to open it, Karras charges at him again, and Cullen must turn to defend himself.  To his astonishment, Karras comes at him without drawing his sword, simply flinging himself forward as if to tackle Cullen.  It is the height of stupidity, so Cullen takes him to task for it by stabbing him at the seam of breastplate and tassets.  Usually there is a break in the chain there; if Cullen is lucky, he can gut the fool.

     If he'd used a sword, it would have worked.  Instead the poker goes neatly between the plates, but catches in the chain underneath.  Karras nearly does Cullen's job by impaling himself with his own momentum, but the instant he feels the poker strike, he turns aside with alpha-fast reflexes, and Cullen is half dragged aside as he nearly loses his grip on the poker.  Karras slashes at him; Cullen's control has slipped and he's managed claws, if not a full shift.  Red hot pain sears across Cullen's midriff.  He gasps but manages to keep the poker, staggering back as Karras drops into a crouch, snarling at him and beginning to circle.  With one hand over his middle and praying that he hasn't been gutted -- it _feels_ like he's been gutted, Maker he's never felt such pain -- Cullen moves to put his back to the wall. 

     Through the windows, they can all near the massed howl of the pack as Carver sets up the alarm, and it is taken up by every Wolf throat.  Then the door judders as Carver slams at it, trying to force it open.  Karras bares his teeth in fury.  "Damnation," he says, glaring at Cullen with red eyes.  "You really _are_ an omega.  I couldn't tell at first, but hitting you felt like mauling myself."  He grins suddenly; it's all teeth.  "But I can endure some discomfort if it means leaving Carver Hawke's bitch in pieces before I'm done."

     "You are welcome to try, serrah," Cullen says.  It's bravado.  He's breathing hard, and he is in trouble.  The wound at his middle burns, and he has no Wolf strength or speed.  He's only a half-crippled unbonded omega with a fireplace poker, facing a fully armed and armored alpha in his prime.  This contest has a foregone conclusion if it goes on much longer.

     Karras knows it, too.  He stands up, radiating smug confidence even as Carver slams at the door again.  "You can't fight an alpha and hope to win.  But perhaps we might strike a bargain?  Stand aside, let me take my omega with me, and I might let you live."

     Alain makes a sound of anguish, and it infuriates Cullen.  _This_ is not how a mating should be -- an alpha displaying such cruelty?  The omega tormented and afraid?  It cannot be borne.  "Your pardon," Cullen says, his lip curling.  "I couldn't tell you were an alpha at first.  I was reared to believe that alphas are creatures of _honor_."

     Karras' eyes flare so red that Cullen sees his death in them.  But Alain gasps, "They're coming for you."  He's on the floor where Karras threw him, though Cullen sees him struggling to his feet.  Cullen hurries over to stand beside him, poker at the ready.  "You'd better run, if you want to live.  They want blood."

     "I came for _you_ ," Karras says.  It is a snarl of desperation as well as rage.  "You're mine.  I _took_ you."

     Alain only smiles.  It is so bitter.  "If you manage to steal me from this tower, Karras, I will open my own throat before I ever let you have me again."

     Karras flinches and stares at him in mute shock.  In the same instant, Carver finally manages to kick down the door.  He runs in, fangs bared, two-hander in hand -- and he's carrying a shield?  Which he promptly turns and tosses to Cullen.  Surprised, Cullen catches it on reflex.  It's made of a strange white metal -- light and strong, beautifully balanced.  He puts it on his arm and crouches to continue defending Alain, though the agony at his middle makes wavering auras appear around everything in his vision.

     Carver and Karras are locked in ferocious combat, but at once Cullen sees that Carver is in trouble.  He's still unarmored, and though his two-hander blurs with the fury of his strikes, they're slower than usual.  Then Cullen remembers that Carver has run the Coast and fought through a horde of Dragons today without rest, while Karras is fresh.  Cullen throws another Smite at Karras to harry him, but it's weak and does almost nothing.  Though his limbs feel leaden, Cullen hefts the white shield.  He _must_ help Carver.  Perhaps a bash from the flank...  But he can barely stand.  Is he bleeding out?  He has never felt so weak.

     Then Garrett Hawke runs in through the broken door, his own sword and shield at the ready, and his eyes flare in challenge.  And -- Maker of all -- then the common room window shatters, and there is Alpha-Commander Leandra in the middle of the room, in Wolf form and enormous and practically glowing with fury.  Her fangs are longer than Cullen's fingers.  Behind her, outside the window, the Witch Malcolm Hawke is actually floating, eight stories up; Cullen has never seen a Witch with such raw power.  As Cullen stares in amazement, the Witch gestures, and someone else floats up beside him, dropping through the window.  Maurevar Carver, who shifts to Wolf and stands growling at his alpha's side.

     Karras runs, as he must against such opposition.  Carver starts after him, but stumbles at once.  Leandra and Maurevar are on Karras' trail in a blur, down the corridor of the omega quarters and out of Cullen's sight.  Garrett catches Carver by the arm.  "Don't be a fool.  You're exhausted."

     Carver bristles and snarls at him at once.  "I'm going to _kill_ that fucker -- "

     "Mother will have him," Garrett replies evenly, not reacting to the challenge, though he does take his hand off Carver's arm.  "See to your omega, little brother."

     And Carver starts and focuses on Cullen -- just as Cullen sags to the ground.  He does not want to.  His knees have just decided to stop working.

     Carver's at his side at once, helping him up.  Alain comes in at Cullen's other side, trying to tear open the robe to see the wound.  "Let me see," says another voice; it's Carver's father, the Witch Malcolm.  "Maker's Breath.  He's been _poisoned_."

     Then the room spins, and Cullen finds himself on the floor.  In another moment, darkness claims him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~dramatic cliffhanger music~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of talking. Comedies of manners are so much talking.

     When Cullen wakes, he is in the infirmary of the Gallows.  Beside him sits a dark-haired young woman who radiates healing magic as she reads a scroll to pass the time.  A Witch, then.  She blinks when Cullen sits up, then smiles.  Cullen blinks; it's a familiar smile.  "Hullo, there," she says.  "Feeling better?"

     "I am," Cullen says, warily.  He will never be easy around Witches, though he suspects this one is unlikely to be a threat.  The resemblance is too strong. This must be the Lady Hawke's Witch daughter, Bethany Hawke.  Then Cullen recalls what's happened, and with some alarm he pulls up the nightshirt they've put him in to peer at his belly.  Four ridged white parallel lines are all that remain of the wound.

     "It was omegabane," Bethany says, with a sigh.  "Devil of a thing.  Karras must have dipped his claws in it before sneaking in.  We think he meant to steal Alain... and kill as many of the other omegas as he could, in revenge for Mother exiling him."  She shakes her head.  "He was a sick monster of a beast, but Mother has put him down at last."

     Cullen relaxes at this.  "Then they caught him."

     "With most of the family on his trail?"  Bethany laughs.  It has a vicious edge worthy of any Wolf.  "Karras's head is on a pike over the main gate, and the rest of him has been scattered on Sundermount for the demons and spiders.  Mother was _most_ cross with him."

     Cullen thoroughly approves, though he also warns himself never to displease the Lady.  He sits back as Bethany continues,  "And we've closed off the tunnels that he used; an old smugglers' entrance, from the bad old days when the previous Alpha-Commander let all sorts of nonsense go on."  She gently closes off the flow of healing energy that has been going into Cullen, with an exhalation of relief.  "There, now.  You're welcome to stay here, though you can also return to your quarters; I'll send someone to help, if you want to do that.  Either way, I'd advise you to rest until tomorrow.  And send someone to find me immediately, if you start to feel dizzy or weak again."

     Cullen nods acquiescence.  "Alain and the others?"

     "Alain is in bond shock."  Bethany's smile fades, and she sighs.  "It always hurts an omega to lose his bonded alpha, even if the omega hates him.  No magic can heal that.  But Alain's strong.  Maurevar -- who went through the same thing, you know, when Mother dealt with his old alpha -- thinks he'll pull through fine."

     Cullen grimaces.  "I shall pray for his recovery, then."

     Bethany nods.  "Everyone else is fine.  Garrett took a claw-wound across the face."  She draws a finger across the bridge of her nose.  "He's healed already, of course, but the omegabane meant that it scarred. That stuff's vile, even if it isn't poison to alphas.  But naturally, he's decided that the mark makes him look more handsome, so he's spent the day strutting about and showing it off to his favorite betas and the omegas.  The wound he took on their behalf."  She rolls her eyes. Cullen chuckles too, though privately he thinks it's Carver who deserves the omegas' admiration, if anyone.

     Bethany has said everyone is fine, but --  "And Carver...?"

     She lifts an eyebrow, her gaze suddenly knowing.  "Particularly concerned for him, are you?"

     Cullen flushes.  "No more than I should be for any packmate.  But I do owe him my life, _particularly_.  If he had not heard my call for help -- "

     She laughs, relenting.  "True enough."  Then Bethany chin-points, and Cullen turns... to see Carver curled up in the next bed over, deeply asleep.  As Cullen stares, Bethany says, "He wouldn't leave you, see.  And wouldn't sleep, the fool, until Father told him that you wouldn't die.  That was only a few hours ago."

     "I see."  He doesn't.  Carver Hawke is odd.  It wouldn't be if Cullen were normal; then this would simply be courtship behavior.  But it cannot be.  "How long was I...?"

     "Nearly a whole day."  Bethany sighs, reaching for a small vial on the nightstand beside her.  "We had to research the omegabane antidote before we finally crafted it, you see.  No one's used a poison like that in Kirkwall in living memory.  Who would want to kill an omega?  And then once we made it, we weren't sure if it wasn't too late.  But here you are, awake and pulling through beautifully."

     Maker's Breath; Cullen had no idea he'd come so close to death.  "I thank you for your care, then."

     "Mmm-hmm."  Then Bethany draws up her knees in the chair, her eyes sparkling with mischief.  It makes her look a lot like her older brother, Garrett.  "So you're the one Carver asked both our fathers about."

     Cullen blinks.  "What?  Asked them... what?"

     "I don't know.  He wouldn't tell me, the wretch.  But he went to see them the night you returned from the Coast, before he'd even washed the Dragon blood off.  Closed door meeting, boys only, very hush hush.  But then, during the party, he went to Mother and asked if he could have _that_ , from the family armory.  Said he wanted to give it to someone." 

     And she points toward the shield that Carver threw at Cullen, during the fight against Karras.  It's leaning against the foot of Cullen's bed now.  As if it belongs to Cullen.

     Cullen stares at the shield in confusion.  It is a magnificent shield, as Cullen noticed during the fight:  light and strong, its white-silver face filigreed with the Hawke emblem.  _Too_ magnificent.  "There must be some mistake," he murmurs.  If indeed Carver meant to give him the shield, surely even an alpha of this bizarre pack understands that such a fine gift is not without meaning, between alpha and omega.  A shield so fine can only be a courting gift.  But Carver Hawke cannot _possibly_ be courting Cullen.  Why would he, when there are so many other omegas in the pack, several of whom are available and unblemished? 

     Bethany gets to her feet and gathers her things to leave.  "Seems clear enough to me, but what do I know?  This is Wolfy business."  She shrugs, but she's smiling.  "Do you know, though?  He talked about you to me for an _hour_ , once you were out of danger.  He was dead on his feet, so tired that his words were slurred, but he kept going on about how you led a strike team to take out a saarebas, like clockwork.  How you researched the trail and made the plan, how good you were with a sword, how you weren't scared at all when he nearly lost it..."  She grins.  "My brother doesn't impress easily.  You have an admirer, for whatever that's worth to you."

     Cullen tries not to flush, and fails.  "Everything I have done is, ah, no more than an omega's duty, Lady Witch."

     "...and he mentioned how pretty your manners are.  'Lady Witch,' indeed!"  Bethany bounces a little on her feet, delighted by the appellation.  "Well, I've got to go, now that you're up.  But it's been very nice to meet you, Omega Cullen."  She grins at him, then bows her way out.

     In her wake, Cullen looks at the shield for a long time.  He cannot remain in the room with Carver there, of course; he is unbonded, and they are unchaperoned.  But he also cannot take the shield with him, however plainly Carver has positioned it for Cullen to take.  If it is indeed a courting gift -- and it cannot be! -- then Cullen does Carver no favors by encouraging him to pursue what is simply impossible.

     A beta comes in to help Cullen back into his clothing and to assist him on the walk back to the omega quarters.  Cullen is not as weak as he expected to be, however; the magical healing has done its work.  Then Zevran and the others greet him with a cheer that Cullen feels is wholly undeserved, for has Cullen not done what any proper omega should do, defending his fellows from dishonor? 

     But it is nice, being welcomed home.  Being surrounded by people who know of his impairment and yet do not count him lesser for it.  That is a new feeling, and one which Cullen treasures.  Perhaps he has begun to feel a _little_ at home, here.

     And when he is alone in his bed that night, he curls up beneath the blankets and tries hard not to think about Carver Hawke for the rest of the night.  He does not succeed.

#

     Three days pass.  Cullen has avoided sparring as well as morning muster for Carver's troop when it is their next turn at patrol.  He has no official posting, after all -- but avoiding the troop after they have fought together makes him feel terrible, and he is restless and angry with himself until that evening, when he hears that the troop has returned unscathed.  That decides him, and he finally goes in search of Carver.  He's being childish, and it's time to settle matters.  At least once he has reminded Carver of his unavailability, he'll be able to sleep more easily.

     He asks around, and learns that Carver usually haunts the practice yard even in his free hours -- but he has not done so since defeating the rogue Dragons.  It takes an irritating amount of running about, but finally Cullen realizes Carver is in his quarters.  This makes him hesitate; it is improper for an unbonded omega to seek out an alpha, unless he wants to be bound.  But since that's the issue they need to discuss... Cullen steels himself, and sets forth to be improper.

     The alphas' quarters are the opposite of the omegas'.  While the omegas live communally save for their separate rooms, the alphas each have individual apartments spread out around the entire Gallows complex.  Carver and his brother share a suite, as Carver mentioned, in one of the towers that overlooks Kirkwall's harbor.  When Cullen finally finds it and knocks, for several moments there is no answer.  Eventually, however, someone tromps toward the door from the other side, and it opens -- to reveal Garrett, much to Cullen's dismay.  Bethany mentioned the lurid red mark across Garrett's face, which Cullen must admit _does_ make him look rather rakish.  He barely notices this, however, as Garrett is not only shirtless but wearing only a towel.  What _is_ it with these brothers and casual near-nudity? 

     Garrett stares at Cullen for a moment, then grins and props one arm on the door sill, as Cullen tries to look anywhere else.  "Please tell me you're _not_ here to see my idiot brother," he says.  There's no other way to read the tone of his voice but pure innuendo.

     Cullen worries that perhaps the overflow of blood to his face will cause an aneurysm.  It cannot be denied that Garrett is a handsome man, but...  He isn't what Cullen craves, Maker help him.  And Cullen's craving must be dealt with now, before it gets any worse.  "Ah -- forgive me, serrah alpha, I am here for Carver.  If I may."

     Garrett sighs with an exaggerated forlorn tone... and doesn't move.  "You sure?  He's been even stranger than usual lately, you see.  If you only want a few hours in an alpha's bed, frankly, I'm not sure how he'd handle that.  I, at least, won't get, ah, attached."

     It feels like an insult -- especially when Cullen recalls that Garrett has been using the omegas in some kind of pissing contest with Carver.  "I have no interest in such shallow pleasures, serrah," he snaps, drawing back his shoulders and glaring at the man.  It's completely improper.  One does not look an alpha in the eye in challenge, unless one wants a fight.  Even Garrett is surprised by this; he lifts an eyebrow.  But Cullen is done with this pack's ridiculousness, and all these stupid alpha games.  Perhaps he _does_ want a fight.  "I do not ever mean to pursue bondless mounting.  Certainly that is others' choice and business to pursue, but it is not for me, and I am steadfast in this conviction.  And I'll bear no more insinuations from you, or _anyone_.  Now, will you stand aside?"

     Garrett looks quite taken aback.  Then, however, he grins.  It is the first _real_ smile Cullen has seen on him, he realizes in sudden confusion.  "Well, _well_.  He said you had teeth, even without a Wolfshape!  And it seems I had no reason to worry for him, then."  He steps aside and holds open the door, gesturing for Cullen to enter.  "His place is over there.  Go on."

     Cullen steps through, and frowns as he processes Garrett's words.  He turns back as Garrett closes the suite door, narrowing his eyes as suddenly several observations fall into place.  "You thought -- "  Maker.  Cullen inhales.  "You thought I came only to, to..."  He can't say the words.

     "To have a tumble, yes," Garrett says, amused.  "To get your omega alpha'd, to make the beast with one back and a pretty mouth, to ride the Wolf -- "

     " _Serrah._ "  Cullen is beginning to wish he'd brought his sword.

     Garrett laughs, then sighs, putting one hand on his hip.  "Maker, you're _so_ proper that I can't resist, sorry.  But what you should know, I suppose, is that Carver, well, _gets attached_."  His perpetual smile has faded for the first time since Cullen met him; he is completely serious now.  "He shouldn't, really, given the circumstances here in the Gallows.  So many traumatized and angry omegas; the last thing they need is another grabby alpha.  They want... safety.  Small stakes.  And Carver understands that, and tries to give them what they need.  We both do; Aveline as well.  But Carver's not very good at it because it's not really what he wants for himself.  Do you see?"

     Cullen does, though with some chagrin.  It's the kind of twisty, convoluted thinking that alphas are infamous for.  "You aren't really trying to put him in his place," he exclaims.  "You're... helping him figure out what he needs?"  No, that doesn't feel quite right.  "Helping him _find_ his place, in the pack.  Then you don't hate him at all!"

     Garrett seems genuinely taken aback.  "Does he think I hate him?  Ah, sod it.  Thought he would understand."  He rubs the back of his head.  "Need omegas to help with that sort of thing.  But no, of course I don't hate him; he's my little brother, after all.  But he lacks confidence, so I make him stand up for himself, you see?  He's also a bit slow sometimes -- but a good knock about the head seems to help."  He makes a fist and punches an imaginary opponent.  Cullen stares at him; after a moment, Garrett flushes and hunches a little.  "Look, we're alphas, all right?  That's how it works."

     Maker help them all.  Cullen coughs to cover a smile -- but then he sobers as he recalls why he has come.  Carver has _gotten attached_ , and that cannot be permitted.  "I should speak with your brother, serrah.  I cannot promise... In fact..."  But no; this should be only for Carver's ears.  "Please."

     Garrett purses his lips, thoughtful.  "Should I clear out for the evening?  Or fetch you both a stiff drink?"

     Cullen shakes his head.  "I cannot say what would suit you, serrah.  But _please_."

     Garrett frowns at him, but then finally sighs and points across a _very_ large room, which seems to be mostly empty apart from a few couches that look dusty.  Neutral ground that neither of them uses, Cullen suspects, given alphas' penchant for territoriality.  At the other end of the room is a bedroom door, however, so Cullen nods to Garrett and heads in that direction.

     At his knock, Carver yanks open the door with a growl.  "What the sod do you -- "  And then he stops, staring at Cullen in total shock.

     Cullen grimace-smiles.  "Ah... good evening, Alpha-Lieutenant."

     It seems to occur to Carver to speak.  "Ah, right, I..."  And then he trails off, staring again.

     Maker, this is awkward.  "May I come in?"

     "Fuck, sorry."  Carver immediately steps aside.  "I just wasn't expecting --  Right.  Yes."

     Cullen steps in, swallowing.  The Den Mothers were always explicit on the matter of what Good Unbonded Omegas Don't, and one of those things was Step Into the Private Space of an Unbonded Alpha Without a Chaperone or Preferrably Several.  But this is the Gallows, Cullen reminds himself.  He feels utterly safe in Carver's presence.  And even if Carver were inclined to seduce an innocent omega, and Cullen inclined to be a little less Good... things are different here.

     Carver's "room" is actually an apartment in itself, Cullen sees.  There is a small and rather cozy den-like area, with two enormous, comfortable-looking chairs arranged around the hearth, and a thick bearskin rug between them.  A bookcase, bearing a lot of well-worn tomes; some Orlesian pennants on the walls, for reasons Cullen cannot fathom; a half-dead plant scraggling over the windowsill.  Apart from the sword- and armor-racks in the corners, it seems an altogether private space, where the politics of the pack never intrude.  Beyond this is the bedroom, which is as neat as that of a man with an alpha mother will invariably be... but Cullen carefully positions himself so that he will not look into that space.  This will be difficult enough as it is.

     "I felt that we should talk," Cullen says, once Carver has shut the door behind him.

     "'Bout what?"  Carver asks.  He's turned away -- over to the armor rack, where Cullen can't see his face.  And belatedly Cullen sees the white shield set against the wall there.  Carver has fallen into the peculiar brusqueness that he showed on that first day of muster.  But Cullen recognizes it, now:  it's defensive tension, desire, and nerves, masked with belligerence.  And in token of which, after a moment, Carver turns and glowers at him.  "Never mind, I know what.  You made things pretty sodding clear already, so I don't see the point of talking further."  He gestures at the shield.

     Cullen takes a deep breath.  "I was uncertain whether the shield was meant for me, serrah al -- "

     " _Carver_.  And who the sod else would it have been meant for?  I threw it to _you_."

     "In a moment of duress," Cullen says, reaching for patience.  But then, he too is dancing obliquely around the real matter, isn't he?  _One_ of them must be bold here.  So, even though it is _highly_ improper, Cullen draws himself up.  "Please, Carver; let us have plainness between us.  Was the shield a... a courting-gift?"

     Carver stares at him for a moment, incredulous.  "Of _course_ it was a fucking courting-gift!  You think I give omegas silverite shields all the time?"

     Silverite?  The sheer value that such a shield would carry leaves Cullen breathless, especially when he considers that Carver just chucked the thing at him in the middle of a fight.  But more importantly --  "Courting-gifts are normally delivered through _intermediaries_ , serrah.  After much negotiation, and a betrothal promise, and sometimes a gift to the omega's pack alpha.  So that intentions are _clear_."

     "What?" Now Carver looks horrified.  "Oh, Void, Maurevar didn't tell me all that."

     "You asked Maurevar -- "  The mysterious meeting!  " -- how to court me?"

     "Yeah," Carver says, troubled.  "I mean, not like I would know how otherwise.  But before his first alpha, Maur was like you, raised in a Maker-fearing Wolf pack.  A _proper_ omega.  And Mal, he was the world's biggest smooth-talker back in his prime.  'S'how he ended up charming his way out of the Gallows, then mated to a noblewoman Wolf and a runaway omega all at once.  Really wish I could've inherited some of that."  He sighs and shrugs, awkwardly.  He is all over awkward.  "Things are different here, we always say.  For the better, I figure -- but you're not like the other omegas here.  So I thought... I thought I should try the old-fashioned way."

     It would never have occurred to Cullen before now that an alpha might _not know how_ to do things properly.  He is simultaneously flattered and astonished.  But he shakes his head; this is a distraction.  "Then I, too, must be plain.  I would value your friendship, but I cannot mate with you.  I am sorry.  I trust you understand."

     The hurt that flashes across Carver's face nearly undoes Cullen.  Then the cold mask of their first meeting replaces it, and Carver draws himself up.  "Right.  Well.  Understood.  Like I said, you were clear enough when you returned the shield."

     It feels wrong.  Cullen has said what he must, but... it _is_ wrong.  His every instinct, poor as they are these days, decries leaving things this way. 

     So he ventures, "I returned the shield because I was unsure of your intentions, and as I said, such exchanges require surety.  But I also did it because I thought that I had explained clearly to you, before.  My... condition.  I cannot mate with _anyone_.  If I could, serrah Carver..."  It feels horribly wanton and sinful to say this aloud.  He must, however, for it is the Maker's own truth.  "If I could have an alpha, I _would_ accept your courtship.  The very instant that propriety allowed.  But as things are..."  He spreads his hands.

     Carver's eyes widen at this confession.  "But there's no reason you can't take a mate!" he blurts, with a hint of desperation.

     "I did say the reason, Carver.  There is the problem of my scent, and with bonding uncertain, and then the danger of corruption..."

     Carver stares at him.  "I don't give two fucks about _bonding_!" he shouts, in such an incredulous tone that Cullen falls into instant confusion.  "I don't want to get hitched to _your scent_ , I want you!  And if you're really scared it'll turn me into a demon, then I don't ever have to bite you --  But I asked Malcolm, and he said the chances of that were so miniscule that it didn't even make sense to worry about it!  I'm in more danger walking through the senior enchanters' library on summoning-lesson day."

     Cullen frowns.  It's a cruder version of what Irving told him, back at Kinloch, but...  "And if I cannot be turned?  I would add no strength to the pack."

     "Oh, for -- "  Carver turns away, then back, radiating frustrated anger.  "Are you fucking with me, Cullen?  Are you _saying_ you want me and acting like you really care just to, I don't know, let me down easy?  Because I can't see why else you'd be making all these sodding _excuses_."

     "It is no mere excuse!"  The anguish that Cullen feels -- Maker's Breath, to have finally found an alpha who wants him, but to be _incapable_ \-- tears the words from him.  Too loudly; he is being unseemly in the presence of an alpha.  After taking a moment to master himself, Cullen lets out breath and pushes on.  "I am too _flawed_ to be worthy of an alpha of your caliber, Carver.  And because I am also too proud to settle for a lesser alpha, I have no choice but celibacy, and spinsterhood.  You are kind to pretend interest, and perhaps you've even convinced yourself that your interest is real.  But..."  He tries to stop himself and cannot.  Now that he has chosen confession, the ugly truth insists upon all spilling out of him.  "Three alphas have rejected me already, Carver.  I know how soiled I am."

     There, at last, is Cullen's secret shame, confessed.  He lowers his gaze, shaking in its wake.  Carver has gone silent.  Perhaps he too is ashamed, that Cullen has called out his falseness, or that he has mistaken pity for desire.  But Cullen knows it cannot be.  Alphas are competitive creatures.  They will fight to the death for an ideal omega.  But to take one who has been offered to, and discarded by, so many others?  Cullen has spent the past few years resigning himself to nothing better.

     "Greagoir... wrote to two at other Circles, after the Incident," Cullen murmurs into the silence, while fixing his gaze upon Carver's feet.  "Inquiring as to the suitability of an alliance, with me on offer.  They wrote back with polite refusals.  The third alpha came to see me.  She -- "  He can still hear her voice, and feel the flensing pity of her gaze, if he thinks of it.  "She said that I was fine enough to look upon, and might be useful for breeding or at least... child care.  But she needed a _whole_ omega, not half of one.  Without the bond or the turning, I would never be _hers_.  I would not give her pack another Wolf.  And she said that.... m-my smell was... offputting."

     He falters into silence at last, hunched and miserable, and stands there as the useless, befouled thing that he is.

     Carver does not move for a moment, and then he comes near.  When he lifts his hands to take Cullen's shoulders, Cullen shies away, and Carver drops his hands -- but he doesn't move away.

     "She was full of shit," Carver says.  He sounds angry.  "And so was Greagoir, if he let you think _you_ were the problem instead of that bitch's short-sightedness."

     Cullen flinches, stung into looking up.  "Greagoir is a good man!"

     Carver's eyes have gone red again, but that is anguish rather than anger in his face.  "Maybe he is, but he obviously didn't know anything about omegas.  You don't _tell_ omegas shit like that.  The whole fucking world already tells them that whatever happens to them is their fault, so of course you're gonna..."  He gestures something complicated; Cullen is utterly confused.  " _Take that in_ , and believe it.  Those other alphas who said no without even meeting you, they were shit, too!  Fucking _Void_ , Cullen.  I can't believe you even listened to them!" 

     "I..."  Cullen begins.  And then he falters silent.  He really has no idea what to say to this.  The idea that he should not listen to an alpha is somewhere akin to blasphemy.  But Carver actually thinks it is a perfectly reasonable thing for an omega to do?

     Carver has started pacing, his movements quick with anger.  "I meet other alphas sometimes, from _proper_ packs, and so many times I think they're just like that arse-weasel Karras.  They don't want a lover and a complement, someone who'll back them up in a fight, or take care of them when things get hard.  They want a, a _thing_.  A fucktoy and servant and an obedient little golem who'll do whatever they want, day and night!  But _think_ , Cullen, will you?  Why the sod would _I_ want that?"

     "You -- "  Cullen's mind goes blank.  He cannot think.  "You... do not?"

     Carver lets out a groan of such exasperation that it is very nearly a howl. 

     Then he comes back over and takes Cullen's shoulders this time -- gingerly until it's clear Cullen will permit it, then more firmly, so that his grip can reassure.  "I have two fathers, Cull," he says gently.  "Haven't you ever thought about what that means?  Neither of them is bound to Mother.  Maurevar got bound by his old alpha, and you know second bondings don't always take.  It didn't, in his and Mother's case.  And Malcolm's a _Witch_ , so she couldn't bond him in the first place.  Yeah?  We don't even think Maurevar _can_ have children; that's why Garrett and me are so white, and why Bethy's magicky.  We're all Malcolm's.  But none of my parents care about any of that.  Mother loves both her men, and they love each other, and all three of them have been parents to all three of us, since the beginning."

     It is almost unfathomable.  Would be, if Cullen had not met the Lady Hawke and her two mates, and seen how beautifully they work together.  But if Cullen had been able to read scents, he would have understood just _how_ strange the partnership is.  "Maurevar is... not bound?" he stammers.  He really cannot get his head around that.

     But Carver lets out a rough laugh.  "They're fucking weird, yeah.  But they're all bound -- just not with _that_ kind of bond.  Maur and Mal, they were lovers before they met Mother, see?  Maurevar's the one who set Malcolm free from the Gallows, back when the old Alpha-Commander was running things and brutalizing the Witches.  _That_ was Maur's alpha, and he was shit.  So they ran off together.  Mal's magic kept Maur hidden from his alpha, and Maur protected Mal from Witchphobes and the Gallows's hunters.  Then they met Mom, who was chafing at being a Wolf in the middle of a human noble clan.  Mal figured he'd just use her to get help, contacts, that sort of thing... but they fell for each other.  And instead of making Mal choose between her and Maur, Mother decided to take them both -- and then all three of 'em came back here and ripped Maur's alpha's head off.  Took over, had us pups, and lived happily ever after." 

     Cullen is stunned.  He's heard the story before, but never considered its implications.  So many struggles and horrors.  A cruel alpha overthrown!  All to help one omega who wanted to be free.

     It explains everything that is wrong -- and so very right -- about this ridiculous, enormous, _glorious_ pack, Cullen realizes at last.

     "So Garrett and Bethy and I grew up knowing that the old way wasn't the best way," Carver continues.  "Or even the only way.  And I don't need to _bite_ somebody to know that I..."  His cheeks darken a little; he ducks his eyes.  Then his alpha nature rises, and he straightens and makes a declaration of the whole thing.  "That I want them for mine.  That I can't get them -- you -- out of my sodding head.  I'm not _pretending_ , Cull, or imagining things.  You're the most amazing omega ever, see?  And if you'll have me, I want to take you as my mate -- bound or not, turned or not.  I'd take you if you _stank_.  And you don't!  You just smell, well, weird."

     Cullen winces.  "I am aware."

     "Oh... fuck.  I'm so bad at this."  Carver sighs.  "I just mean... I _like_ how you smell, is what I mean.  You smell different, not pretending otherwise, but around here we don't go grabbing up omegas just because of how they smell."  And then he grimaces.  "Not ordinarily, I mean."

     Cullen shakes his head.  "You have already apologized for that, and I already forgave you."  But that prompts him to remember how, in the Dragon cavern, Carver in his feral state _had_ seemed to enjoy Cullen's scent, even without the omega factor.

     The truth has been in front of him all along. 

     And yet.  Cullen shakes his head.  "Perhaps what you say is true.  But I... I _want_ to be bound, Carver.  I want to serve the Maker as Wolf, and as the life-mate of a Wolf alpha.  And I do not think I could bear it, being with you, without that.  I believe you when you say that bonding isn't important to _you_ , though I can hardly grasp it as a concept.  But _I_ was raised to revere the Maker, and to honor Andraste as His holy omega, and to regard the alpha-omega bond as a sacrament.  It would torment me to..."

     He shakes his head, unable to explain it further.  It is his _calling_.  All his life, Cullen has dreamt of finding the one alpha who would make Cullen his.  He has lived among Wolves and coveted their strength, but contented himself with the knowledge that he might one day run among them.  Even as a boy...  It is romantic nonsense.  He _knows_ it's romantic nonsense.  And yet it is all he's ever wanted.

     Carver's expression goes cagey all of a sudden.  "Well, ah, if that's your only objection...  There _might_ be a way."


	6. Chapter 6

     "What?" Cullen asks.

     "Um, I, ah, I brought your towel to Malcolm, see.  From sparring that day?  Figured he'd need a sample.  And just like I thought, he researched some old scrolls, and then did magic shite to it."  That is alarming on a whole other level.  Carver sees his face and blanches.  "Nothing weird!  Just... the Witches' library here is a lot bigger than what you'd have at Kinloch, so I thought our Witches might do a better job of figuring out how to undo what the demon did to you.  And it turns out there is a method!  'Cause apparently demons love biting omegas, almost as much as they love possessing humans or Witches."

     Cullen goes cold.  "That is horrifying."

     "Yeah, agreed.  But Cullen."  Carver takes a deep breath.  "Malcolm thinks the curse -- that's what the demon's bite is, kind of -- can be broken.  Because you're still an omega, yeah?  You Smote the _shit_ out of that saarebas."  He grins at the memory.  "And you brought me back after I got swallowed up by the red.  All demons can really do to omegas is just... push you away from yourself.  And in your case, the demon didn't even manage to do it all the way.  If we do this right, your omega self will come back."

     It does sound like most Witch solutions to problems:  horrifically complicated and arcane.  But Cullen shakes his head, dazed far more by something else.  "Then... you have been seeking a cure for me?  Since that day we sparred?"

     Carver's hands twitch on Cullen's shoulders.  "Yeah.  'Cause... 'cause I liked you then, Cull, barely knowing anything about you.  I even... That night I dreamt about you.  _That_ way, yeah.  And when I woke up, I figured I wanted you.  After that day on the Coast, I _knew_ I wanted you.  But like I said, I'll take you however.  It's just that you seemed so raw about what the demon had done, that..."  He shrugs.  As if it is nothing that he has sought a way to help Cullen past the worst event of his life.  "I just thought it would make you happy, 's all."

     It is a more pure and perfect courting-gift than any material thing Carver could possibly have offered him.

     Cullen feels tears prick his eyes as he gazes at Carver's earnest face. Then -- _I would have you as mine_ , he thinks savagely, and for the first time without guilt. 

     Carver draws back, eyes widening.  "What?  Why are you crying, what did I do?"

     Cullen lifts a hand to his chest.  Carver is in shirt and trousers, and this is ten thousand times more beautiful to Cullen than Garrett Hawke's entire naked body.  "Kiss me," he says.

     Carver's breath catches, and he freezes for an instant.  Then -- ah, it is perfect, the look of alpha determination that comes over him all at once.  He nods unnecessarily, and shifts his hands up from Cullen's arms to cup Cullen's face... as Cullen realizes Carver has wanted to do all along.  Then he steps closer, and his thumb teases Cullen's lips apart, and then Carver is _there_ \--

     Cullen has read of kisses in the tawdry romances that he has collected in secret all his life.  In them, the alpha _takes_ the omega's mouth, in a rough and barely-symbolic emulation of the sexual taking that is to follow... but this is nothing like that.  Carver is gentle as he nips and licks at Cullen, occasionally closing his mouth over Cullen's and searching him more deeply, but then returning to the exploration, the taste, the savoring.  Cullen tries to meet him, thinking that he should do something -- but Carver is firm in his control, pressing Cullen still, reminding Cullen with hands and lips that he is the more experienced of them.  It is beautiful.  It is perfect, and oh --  Oh, Cullen wants more.  He makes a little sound of need and is rewarded when Carver growls in response, deepening the kiss.  Cullen's hands tangle in his shirt, pulling, finding the heat and solidity of a body under the cloth and groping shamelessly at it.  Hawke steps closer again, and suddenly Cullen's back is pressed to the wall, and Hawke is heat and weight all over his front.  It's like in the Dragon cavern again, except this time Hawke is fully here, and Cullen is fully willing to submit to him as the Maker and nature intended. 

     So when Carver finally brings the kiss to a close, Cullen spends a moment gathering himself.  And then, boldly, _wantonly_ , he meets Carver's eye... and then turns his face aside to bare his neck.  He hears Carver's soft intake of breath; at least he understands that much of what Cullen is doing.  And quickly, as if on impulse, Carver immediately bends to kiss the side of Cullen's neck, lips pressing against tendon and vein.  Cullen's shirt has slipped open at the neck to bare the juncture of neck and shoulder.  It is where the demon bit him, and he flinches a little at the memory.  But Carver's mouth explores here now, heedless of Cullen's scars.  Indeed, he kisses the small marks without fear or revulsion... and have they stopped burning, for the first time since the incident?  And... oh... are those elongated teeth Cullen feels beneath the softness of Carver's lips?  Is that a growl building in Carver's chest?  Is that, oh, _below_ , pressing against Cullen's hip and hard with promise, is that all his...?  It's true, then; he desires Cullen!  And Cullen has waited so long, so _long_ for an alpha's touch, for _this_ alpha, he has never truly wished to be celibate, and Carver is hale and strong, and Cullen is suddenly a breath away from ripping his own clothes off and begging for more.

     But then --

     "Fuck," Carver breathes, against Cullen's skin.  It breaks the spell, though Cullen trembles on its edge, ready to fall in again.  "Nnfuck.  We can't.  N-not here."

     Cullen shudders out a protest.  "Th-there is your bed, just in the next room..."

     Carver _pulls away_.  That is like tearing flesh; Cullen grasps at him, desperate, needing.  "Fucking _Maker_ how I want to take you," Carver breathes, to Cullen's confusion.  He presses his forehead against Cullen's; he's panting a little.  "Sod the bed.  I want to have you right here on the floor.  But you said -- "  He swallows audibly.  " -- you want more than mounting."

     More than mounting.  Cullen groans softly, stunned at how close he has come to violating his own dearest-held principle.  A few seconds of this man's mouth and he has forgotten all propriety.  "Y-yes.  But if it is your intention to bite me -- "  He ducks his eyes, watching Carver through his lashes, cheeks aflame.  "I should not protest."

     Carver's eyes flare red, and Cullen sees his face shift for a moment, the bones sharpening beneath his skin, before settling back into humanshape.  To bind an omega, an alpha must use the half-form, which is somewhere between humanshape and beast.  But Carver manages to fight this back, just.  When his face settles, he lets out a long breath.  "Best chance to break the curse is a ritual Mal told me about," he says, his voice shifting into a deeper register for a moment before stabilizing.  "We have to do it before, uh, anything else.  It's dangerous, though."

     "What manner of -- "  Cullen struggles to pull his thoughts back to order as well.  "...Yes.  Ah.  Very well.  Please explain this ritual, if you would."

     Carver takes a deep breath to regain control, and his eyes diminish in their brightness, but only a little.  He says, though, "Mal says that since the thing that happened to you was an attack on your omega self, by a demon trying to play alpha, that's the key to fixing you."  He swallows and then makes a visible effort to move away from Cullen; Cullen must shut his eyes, lest he lose all dignity and reach after Carver.  He hears Carver go to his bookcase and open something, then come back. 

     But as he stops before Cullen, Cullen feels a not-at-all pleasant familiar prickle on his skin.  Magic, somewhere close to hand.  Surprised, Cullen opens his eyes to see Carver holding a small round river-stone in his hands.  It looks ordinary enough to the eye, but it isn't.  Ah; Witches often use such simple objects to anchor spells of varying complexity.

     "This will take me, uh, into the Fade, kind of," Carver says.  "It'll be the Fade _inside you_ , where your omega self lives, sort of like what happens to mages when they sleep.  But there, the demon that bit you --  I know Greagoir and your old pack killed that one, but the spell will attract another like it."  Cullen stiffens, but Carver bares his teeth.  "We need that, Cull.  I'm gonna fucking _kill_ it.  Mal says that will let your omega self know it's safe to come out again.  'Cause someone's got its back.  Me.  Right here."  He cups Cullen's cheek; it's tender and possessive at once.  "You'll never fight alone again."

     It is dizzying.  Frightening.  And Cullen understands now why Malcolm Hawke called this ritual dangerous.  "But if you fail -- "

     "Well, I won't be possessed.  Alphas are immune to that, too."  But Carver sighs.  "It'll do to me what it's done to you, though.  I'll be divorced from my alpha self, unable to shift or bind a pack.  Unable to bind _you_."

     "What?"  Cullen is utterly horrified.  "No!  You would do to yourself what has been done to me?  You can't!  Not for -- "  Carver is doing this because Cullen wants it.  "Not for my foolish, romantic notions!  I withdraw my objection, Carver.  If you really will have me without the bond -- "

     Carver growls sharply, but almost immediately after, his expression softens.  He slides his fingers into Cullen's hair and pulls him close, gripping the hair and shaking Cullen gently.  "Hush, now.  You're a proper omega.  Ought to know better than to try and talk and alpha out of doing some stupid aggro shite, especially once he's gotten it into his head that his omega needs it."

     Cullen grimaces, hoist by his own petard.  But --  "A proper omega also fights at his alpha's side.  Let me do this with you!"

     "You can't.  Mal could only make the spell powerful enough to send one of us into the Fade, and then only in spirit.  I'll be asleep.  Don't know if you'll even be aware of all of it."

     And then to Cullen's everlasting horror, Carver lets go of him, backing up and lifting the hand that contains the enchanted rock to his breast in a tender salute.  "When I talked to Mal and Maur, I also asked them how to know if what I felt was love.  But I know now, Cull.  Fucking love you.  That's why I have to do this.  And that's why I'm gonna win."

     Cullen stares back at him, stricken to his core.  But that _is_ the problem, isn't it?  Cullen's core.  A demon tried to claim him and drove him from himself, and that is --

     -- _completely unacceptable._  

     Cullen inhales swiftly, his fists clenching as fury suddenly blots out fear.  He has suffered for years.  He has repeatedly denied himself happiness, denied himself a future, all because of a creature that coveted what it could never possibly have.  And now...  Cullen wants his life back.  He is _done_.

     Because Alpha Carver Hawke, scion of the most powerful Wolf pack in the Free Marches, has just declared Cullen _the most amazing omega ever_.  And that of course means that it must be true.

     So Cullen draws himself up, taking a deep breath for calm.  "Very well, then," he says.  "I shall await your return with the greatest of anticipation.  I shall wait to be made yours."  And then, because he cannot leave Carver's declaration unanswered, he adds, "Fight well, my alpha... and my love."

     Carver's delighted smile is the sweetest thing Cullen has ever seen. 

     But then Carver touches the stone to his breast.  It flares magic, limning him in bright blue-green light.  When he abruptly falls to the floor, his eyes blank and body slack, Cullen hurries forward, frightened despite himself.  Carver looks _dead_.  But his pulse is strong, Cullen finds when he pulls Carver into his arms and searches for it, and he still breathes.  He is asleep, and dreaming, into the Fade.

     Cullen holds him across his lap then for what feels like hours, listening to him breathe and memorizing his face.  Will he feel it, if Carver succeeds?  Will he _see_ Carver change, if -- no.  Carver will win.  Cullen has no doubt of it.

     Then, when the sun has begun to set beyond the window, and Cullen has begun to be afraid, _something changes_.  The room ripples, or perhaps that is his vision.  His pulse races; his skin breaks out all over sweat.  And then there is an icy, flaring pain in his shoulder -- in each point of the demon's bite.  It burns, like poison.  Just as swiftly as the pain came upon him, however... it vanishes.  Cullen gasps and scrabbles at his shirt, yanking it open to grope at the scar, trying to see it as best he can. 

     But his hands tell the truth that his eyes cannot see:  the skin is unblemished, the small pointed bumps of purpled scar tissue now smooth beneath his fingertips!  The demon's mark is gone.

     And then Carver jerks awake with a snarl, his eyes so red that they wash the dim room with light.  In one breath his face is fully human, and in the next he is in the half-shape, his fangs gleaming, his expression as feral as that day in the Dragon cavern.  And in the third breath, he blurs up to clamp his own teeth into Cullen's shoulder.

     There is no pain this time.  Cullen clutches at Carver, more out of shock than anything else, feeling only a swiftly-spreading warmth that chases away the lingering cold of the demon's taint.  Is this...?  Could it be?  Will it work?

     And then Cullen knows no more, as the warmth swallows him up and drags him into a dark place where not even his alpha can follow.

#

     When Cullen wakes, it is full dark, and he is alone.

     With a soft groan, he pulls himself upright from where he has been sprawled on the floor.  The room is oddly bright given that no one has lit a lantern -- shades of starlit gray, and everything he sees has a crisp edge.  He feels... strange.  Achy.  Empty.  When he lifts a hand to press it to his forehead, he flinches with the waft of sensation that washes over him -- heat and prickles and something spicy and rich and _exquisite_ that fills the air around him.  There are layers to it, and chemicals he cannot name, and faint hints of things that he can, though the words elude him.  He inhales and there is more of it; he presses his hand to his face and finds it strongest here.  It is good, this sensation.  He needs more of it.  He needs to track it, follow from downwind, find the source of this... this... Maker, this _scent_. 

     Memory and full awareness floods back to Cullen all at once, and he gasps with the shock.  He is _scenting_ again.  And the reason he can see in the dark, the reason scents are so much more powerful than he remembers, is because _he is a Wolf now_.  Great blessing of the Maker and His omega, Cullen is free of the demon's foulness, and restored to his true omega self, at last.

     But --  Cullen comes up to his hands and toes, his every sense awakening to its fullest as he realizes something is wrong.  What?  He feels so empty, so... incomplete.  Then he understands.  Carver has bitten him, turned him, but then _left_.  The rich scent on Cullen's hand is Carver's.  There is no whiff of sickness or fear in it, but the fact remains that Carver _is not here with Cullen_.  This means that the bond between them is tenuous and weak.  Without contact, the mingling of their scents, _mounting_ , neither of them will feel whole.

     His alpha's absence is completely unacceptable, then.  Cullen bares his teeth -- teeth which are still human for now; shifting is for later, every instinct informs him, after his mate has guided him through the process -- and goes a-hunting.

     He doesn't have to hunt far.  Carver isn't in the apartment, so Cullen opens the door.  Then he flinches back, growling, as a figure moves to block it.  Garrett Hawke.  Fully clothed, thank the Maker, but Cullen keeps growling, because this is the _wrong_ alpha Hawke.  His scent is all wrong.

     "Well, I see you're be -- "  Garrett begins.  He stops midsentence, however, because his nostrils twitch, and his eyes immediately widen.  "Maker's Breath, he really did it.  You smell like an omega, now.  And a Wolf at last."

     It should feel like a moment of triumph, but Cullen is irritable with need.  "Carver," he snaps.

     Garrett glances back, then steps a little aside.  Not all the way, Cullen notes -- but then he forgets everything, because now he can see that Carver is in the main room beyond him.  Carver is pacing, head down, and does not seem to have noticed either Garrett's movements or Cullen's appearance.  What is wrong with him?

     "He asked me to, well, chaperone you," Garrett says, reading Cullen's frown.  "Because, as he said, he wanted to fuck you silly, even while you were unconscious with the change.  He seems to be _reacting_ to you, you see, the way alphas in this pack normally don't.  It's basically taking everything he's got for him to maintain this much control."

     Cullen stares at Garrett in affront.  "I am his omega!  He may -- " Ugh, Cullen will not say this vulgar word.  " _Have_ me whenever he wishes!"

     Garrett winces.  "Yes, I gather that's how things usually go, but please remember:  _we don't do that, here_.  Not even when it's a prim and proper newly-bonded omega who _wants_ to be fucked silly.  You do, don't you?  Want that.  Just to be sure, and so I can tell Mother if she frets."

     Cullen grips the door sill, which creaks under his hand.  He will kill Garrett if he must.  " _Yes_ , I want that.  That is his duty to me as alpha and mate, and you are _interfering_.  Now get out of my bloody way!"

     Alphas hate being given orders by anyone save a higher-ranked alpha.  Nevertheless, Garrett backs off and makes an elaborate mocking bow to Cullen.  "On your order, serrah omega!  And if you don't mind, I'm heading out for the evening so I don't have to hear the festivities.  Do have fun, and try not to break him.  Mother will be cross if you do."  And before Cullen can retort to this, Garrett has trotted over to the window, and climbed out through it.  With the half-shift, he can climb straight down the building wall if he must.

     Irrelevant.  Cullen fixes his gaze upon his mate.  Carver still has not looked up.  He's walking a circle, and it is clear that the bonding urge rides him powerfully; the skin of his bare torso is flushed and slick with sweat, and his breath comes in a harsh, rapid rasp.  He's wearing some sort of loose pants, probably as a concession to his brother's horror, but they do little to conceal the jut of... ah, _Maker_.  Cullen stares for a moment, his mouth watering, whole body tightening with need, and it is not an entirely conscious thing that propels him toward Carver.  He crosses the room in a prowl, intent, his hands flexing open and shut at his sides.

     But Carver, his _mate_ , flinches suddenly as he notices Cullen, and _backs up_.  Startled, Cullen freezes.  Carver's eyes are blood red, glazed, and not entirely sane, but he blinks quickly and swallows.  "Cull.  I don't..."  His nostrils flare suddenly, and he shudders all over, his eyes flashing brighter red.  He takes a step toward Cullen, then stops with visible effort.  " _Stay away_.  I can't... Cull, if you come near me... I won't be able to stop myself!"  His voice, already a growl, breaks; he is almost hysterical with fear.

     Cullen shakes his head in confusion.  "Then _don't_.  Carver, this is -- "

     "No!  Don't you sodding understand?"  He turns away to pace again, clutching at his head.  "I've never _felt_ like this.  Everything...  My head's full of..."  He stops abruptly and turns back to Cullen, shaking, anguished.  "You don't know, Cull.  You don't know what I almost _did_ to you in there.  I thought -- "  He makes a choking sound and looks away from Cullen, groaning.  "I thought I was different from Karras and all those other shite alphas, but... Maker, I'm just like them."

     Cullen stares at Carver for a moment, astonished.  He has of course been taught what to expect, upon bonding.  The alpha seals the bond with an immediate mounting, and special pheromones come alive in both to ensure that they are capable.  It is as powerful a compulsion as heat, or breeding when female Wolves are involved.  Cullen remembers blushing furiously while a Chantry Mother -- blushing just as much -- explained with anatomical diagrams how a male omega's body loosens to accommodate a male alpha, or stiffens for the use of a female, but it has never occurred to Cullen before now that he might mate with a man who does not know any of this.  And is _terrified_ by it.

     "Hawke," he says, extending his hands.  He edges closer, as one would a skittish horse.  " _Carver_.  This is simply what must be.  Do not doubt that I, too, desire -- "

     Carver snarls at him.  "I'm not going to fucking _hurt_ you!"

     It is unbearable.  _Unbelievable_.  Cullen closes his eyes, groaning.  Carver's scent permeates the room, and it is heady, thick with want, and how Cullen yearns to satisfy that want!  But now, this, on top of everything else he has endured?  Now he must somehow seduce his bloody alpha into mounting him, when there is no protocol for such a thing because it has _never happened in the history of alphas and omegas_?  After Cullen has endured a demonic curse and years of despair and Carver has undertaken a magical ritual and --

     He snaps.

     " _Carver Hawke_ ," he snarls back.  He can feel his eyes flash, and his fangs elongate, but even if he could not feel this, Carver starts and stares at him as if he has suddenly grown a second head.  Cullen does not care.  "How _dare_ you do this!  I require you.  I _demand_ you.  And if you do not come here and mount me, this very instant, I will _murder you_."

     In the morning, when he recalls this moment, he will be appalled at himself.  In the now, however, he is shaking with rage, and he means every word.  Carver stares at him for a breath longer, stunned -- and then, infuriatingly, he laughs.  Only once, thank the Maker, or Cullen would actually have to kill him.

     Then Carver takes a deep breath and gives himself a little shake.  "Yeah.  All right.  _Yeah_ ," he says -- and finally, _finally_ , comes to take Cullen.

     It is much better, from there.  After Carver has kissed them back into his quarters -- stripping Cullen the whole way, and growling in pleasure when Cullen fumbles between them to wantonly examine that ever-so-intriguing lump in his pants -- he puts Cullen on the couch on his belly.  He is too careful at first, gripping Cullen's wrists too gently, working fingers in him netherward for what feels like an eternity, murmuring soft questions at him like, "All right?" and "Turn over for me?"  It is astonishingly tender -- and an utter frustration, because it is not at all what Cullen _needs_.  He finally has to twist about and nip Carver's chin, hard enough to draw blood, even as Carver is in the middle of very carefully moving inside him.

     "Ow, fuck!  Cullen, what -- "

     "I would have _more_ , in the Maker's name," he growls, command-sharp.  "I would -- "  Oh, for Andraste's sake, he's going to have to say it, because alphas in this ridiculous pack understand nothing but crude directness.  "I would have you _fuck_ me, Carver Hawke.  Hold me down, ride me to release, and _stop asking me if I want it_.  I am here beneath you, am I not?  Fuck me _crosseyed_.  Or must I kill you and go find another alpha?"

     Carver sits up, eyebrows near his hairline.  Then he grins, delighted.  "Did you actually say -- "

     "Yes!"  Cullen doesn't even care anymore.  "Damn you, I want -- " 

     But he is rewarded when, in the next breath, Carver drags his arse up higher, forcing him into proper omega presentation stance.  Then Carver grips his shoulder and deepens his thrusts, until Cullen's vision blurs and he can do nothing but lie there, helpless and delighted, while his alpha at last takes unfettered pleasure of him.

     With a growl and laugh in his voice, Carver asks, "Better?" And so transported is Cullen that this time the question does not frustrate at all.  He can only groan in answer, but there must be enough obvious fulfillment in it to satisfy Carver. 

     "Yeah, that's better."  So, laugh softening into a growl, Carver settles in to having him -- holding him down with one hand, stroking him to delight with the other, making relentless demands of him in every other way -- until there is nothing more of frustration, only a white haze of relief and joy that is everything the Den Mothers promised, and then some.

#

     It is two days later that Cullen receives a summons to meet with the Lady Hawke.  As he is finally satisfied as to the appropriate mingling of his scent with that of his mate (after two days of Carver's dutiful and constant attendance), he of course lets the messenger beta know that he will be there as soon as he can wash and dress.

     He takes care to show no visible discomfort as he walks.  It is not so much, after all, given that he is Wolf now and heals quickly, and given that Carver was more than considerate in between bouts of mounting -- running Cullen baths, massaging healing potions into his sore places, suckling or riding Cullen's cock instead of harrying his overdone nethers further, and so on.  Still, as Cullen finally had to educate his lovely alpha, it is _appropriate_ for there to be some roughness to the business; not only appropriate, but desirable.  And after much back-and-forth and Cullen's reluctant agreement to use something Carver calls a "safe word," Carver finally yielded to Cullen's wishes and his own instincts.  Now Cullen proudly sports additional bites, hand-shaped bruises, and one lovely claw-rake across his back, all as the marks of his alpha's favor.  And now, armored again, he carries upon his back his betrothal shield with its Hawke family crest, so that all will know him a proper omega dedicated before Maker and beast to the success of his pack.

     Leandra is not alone, Cullen finds when he enters the throne chamber.  Malcolm is not present, by which Cullen intuits this is a Wolfen matter, but old Maurevar limps out of a side-entrance as Cullen drops to one knee to offer the pack alpha his neck.  She actually gets up and comes over to put a hand on his neck for a moment, though she then sighs and helps him to his feet.  "As pleased as I am to have a new Wolf," she drawls, "the fact remains that you're _Carver's_ Wolf now, as your scent unmistakably indicates.  I suppose I must be happy to at least have you by proxy, however."

     "I am the pack's, Lady Alpha," Cullen says earnestly, which earns a rough laugh from Maurevar.

     "Nice and diplomatic.  What did I tell you?"  Maurevar has arranged himself on the Lady's couch, and as Cullen watches, Leandra lies down and curls against his larger frame.  It's good to see how tenderly she nips at his bearded chin before settling.  There was a time when Cullen felt only envy at the sight of such a bond --

     -- ah, but they are not bonded, are they?  Except it is obvious that they _are_ , by time and love.  It is a thing Cullen has grown to respect more, in his time with this strange and lovely pack.

     "Omegas are the best for making any pack stronger," Maurevar says, oblivious to Cullen's quiet epiphany.  "And this one's a proper omega through and through."

     "You're always right," she says, fondly, and then she turns her lambent gray eyes upon Cullen.  "I have decided to promote you, Cullen," she says.  "Maurevar is stepping down from his position, and I would like you to take over as co-Captain of the pack."

     Cullen stiffens, staring at her in frank disbelief.  "I -- what?  Co- _Captain_ , Lady?  But that -- "

     "Would put you at a higher rank than Carver, yes."  Leandra looks wry.  "And you would also have to work with Garrett, which I imagine will be a bit of a trial all on its own.  Still.  It cannot be denied that you are worthy of the role, and that the pack would benefit from the addition of _a little_ propriety."  She smiles, and Maurevar does, too, as Cullen blushes.  "We've grown lax in some respects.  And there is a balance between the old ways and the new that can suit us all, I am certain -- so I mean for you to help us find this.  Will you?"

     Cullen shakes his head, more in surprise than refusal.  "But I _cannot_ outrank Carver.  It is -- "

     "'Inappropriate?'"  Leandra grins, and Cullen privately vows to stop using the word forever.  "Yes, well.  I don't know if you've realized this yet, Cullen, but neither of my sons has any particular _interest_ in succeeding me as Alpha-Commander, should I step down or be slain in the line of duty.  Oh, they are capable; I've made certain of that.  But 'capable' is not the same thing as 'willing.'"  She looks away for a moment, disgruntled.  "At least my Bethany has some ambition to be First Enchanter.  Alas for her brothers."  A long sigh.  "And reluctant leadership is a far cry from the vision that this pack requires... which I believe you do possess.  If there is an omega who can command a pack, it would be you."

     " _Command?_ "  Cullen's mouth falls open.  Which is completely inappropriate before the pack alpha, but --  "Forgive me, Lady, but do you mean to groom me for _your_ role?"

     "And why not?  I've had an omega captain for years, now, and he's been eminently capable.  That _is_ an omega's role, after all -- to be another leader, as the pack requires."  She eyes Maurevar fondly; he nuzzles her hair.  "And I think you'll find Carver more delighted than dismayed by your advancement over him.  He is, after all, the one who proposed it to us."

     "He -- "  And now Cullen is completely floored.  "Truly?  But... Alpha-Lieutenant Aveline?  Our allied packs?  Would none of those object?"

     Leandra sighs.  "Aveline will likely steal Donnic any bloody day now.  She has been presenting him with _marigolds_."  Cullen frowns in confusion, trying to fathom what marigolds have to do with anything, and Leandra shakes her head.  "I don't know, either.  But he's finally taking the hint of her interest.  And should they actually manage to make a pairing of it, they'll likely go and take over the City Guard pack.  Its alpha, Jeven, has needed killing for some time.  She'll see it done -- or I will."  She bares her teeth briefly, her eyes flaring red.  It is as terrifying in her elegant face as it is beautiful -- and perversely, it makes Cullen yearn for his Carver's fierce beauty that much more.  "Thrask isn't strong enough to lead, alas, and he knows it.  As for our allied packs, you have Greagoir's support.  He also recommended you for an officer's role before he left, by the way, should you accept our pack.  The rest of our allied packs will either fall into line, or not."  She shrugs.  "I don't mean to step down anytime _soon_ , note.  You'll have some time in the Captain's role to get them used to it, barring something killing me before my time.  But when that time comes, it is my hope that you will be seasoned enough to make the transition smooth."

     It is astonishing.  Breathtaking.  _Inappropriate_ \-- and yet.  Has Cullen not already taken note of how a strong pack, well-led, can bring peace to a whole region?  And if what the Maker requires of him is that he enforce such peace at that pack's head... it would be far more inappropriate for him to refuse, would it not?

     So after a long moment, he looks up at Lady Hawke, and inclines his head.  "I shall accept, madam.  With thanks."

     Maurevar grins, all teeth.  Leandra's smile is more restrained, but no less pleased, as she inclines her head.  "Very well," she says.  "We'll announce it on the morrow... Omega-Captain Cullen."  And then she pauses, her gaze warm and so kind that Cullen knows where his mate got it from.  "And welcome to the family, as well."

#

     Later that night, after Cullen has demanded another mounting from his alpha -- Carver really must find a way to fit this in once daily at minimum; Cullen decides to add it to his schedule along with his other duties -- they curl together in a pool of moonlight on Carver's bed, safe and warm.

     "Are you truly well with this?"  Cullen asks him, worried.  Carver whooped with delight when he heard the news of Cullen's promotion, and he has shown nothing but enthusiasm for the idea of serving under his omega.  Still, it is... well.  Cullen sighs.  He has already begun rethinking what is and is not _appropriate_ , but old habit remains.

     Carver chuckles.  He's got his chin atop Cullen's head, because Cullen has let him know he likes this.  The scent of him is rich and comforting in its strength.  "'Course," he says.  "You'll be better at running things than I am, I just know it.  And you're already amazing in a fight, but I'll have your back, and Garrett too, and even Bethany.  Who sent me congrats, by the way, for making such a good catch in you."  He yawns and drags his nails lightly up Cullen's spine, which makes Cullen arch and shiver in delight.  "So you've got the Hawkes, and really, that's all you need.  But the omegas support you, too, and the betas sodding love you, and even Thrask and Aveline are on board.  That's _everybody_ , Cull.  You've been here, what, couple of weeks?  It's meant to be."

     This is a strange thought, though not as discomfiting as Cullen might once have found it.  He does not think about it overmuch, however, because Carver has pushed him over and begun touching him in _appropriately_ interested ways, which is more than well with Cullen.

     He is not certain whether he will get used to this strange pack, where alphas _ask_ and omegas _lead_ and even the Witches all seem sane.  Still... he is whole and hale, and he has a Wolf's strength now, and he has an alpha of honor and good rearing as mate, and his sword-arm remains strong.  And best of all, for the first time in years, Cullen finds himself _happy_.  Which is the truest miracle of all.

     So as Carver growls and climbs atop him and begins an delightfully forceful attendance upon Cullen's person, Cullen sighs and relaxes into his control and thinks, _I can but submit to your will, O Maker._  

     Then he shuts his eyes, and exults in fulfillment at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand done at last.
> 
> Yes, this whole thing was just an exercise to get Cullen into the Knight Commander's role again even if he's an omega, but that's because, as I have previously stated on multiple occasions, I don't Get a/b/o. Or rather, what I dislike about most a/b/o is that it's way too gender essentialist (even if all parties are the same gender) and disturbingly eugenicist and probably some other -ists that I can't nail down right now. The idea that someone is a _born leader_ is bullshit. The idea that a sexual kink for dominating or being dominated somehow indicates strength of personality, is bullshit. The idea that leadership equals just giving orders and being assertive, but not _knowing how stuff works_ and _respecting community norms_ and so on, is bullshit. So yes, what we have here in Carver is an alpha who's a good but not great leader, but who has the wherewithal to recognize a better leader in Cullen. And Carver might be toppy here, but he adores the fuck out of his bossy, prissy, badass omega. And Cullen might like getting done in the ass rather more than usual, but he's the same badass that he is in all my stories, just working within the problematic gender roles that have been ladled over him by an oppressive fucked up religious hierarchy. And, if I wrote this right, he's working the fuck out of it.
> 
> This actually is much shorter than it wanted to be because, ha ha, it's 30,000 fucking words and I'm busy. But if not for that, you would've seen what happened to Carver in the Fade, and Garrett fall madly for a rude young elven omega who's a Tevinter ex-slave, and Leandra laugh hysterically at the serial killer who comes for her before she rips his fucking head off and shits down his throat. (Because Carver got his brutal streak from _somewhere._ ) Alas, alas, alas. Hope you enjoyed what's here.


End file.
